


The Duck Prince

by Thistlepaw



Series: GFB [4]
Category: South Park
Genre: Ducks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26813389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlepaw/pseuds/Thistlepaw
Summary: So, remember when I said I was done with the whole Ghosting AU,exceptfor this one side story I still wanted to write? Well, here you go - if you've been missing Ghosting, I hope this will fill that Ghost-shaped hole in your heart!WARNING: This story will contain mentions of past abuse, though there are none at all in the first chapter. It does contain mentions of Nugget, though. ;)Oh, and when Tweek says that skirt his mom's wearing is alot, he really isn't kidding - here's a link so you can see it for yourself, though I must admit I kind of like it...?https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/PyQAAOSwy8Ze3rOu/s-l640.jpg
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Series: GFB [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168745
Comments: 35
Kudos: 45





	1. It's a Triceratops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweet_eijiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_eijiro/gifts).



> So, remember when I said I was done with the whole Ghosting AU, _except_ for this one side story I still wanted to write? Well, here you go - if you've been missing Ghosting, I hope this will fill that Ghost-shaped hole in your heart! 
> 
> WARNING: This story will contain mentions of past abuse, though there are none at all in the first chapter. It does contain mentions of Nugget, though. ;)
> 
> Oh, and when Tweek says that skirt his mom's wearing is a _lot_ , he really isn't kidding - here's a link so you can see it for yourself, though I must admit I kind of like it...?  
> https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/PyQAAOSwy8Ze3rOu/s-l640.jpg

They drive out of South Park in two cars, Tweek’s dad taking the lead in his white Datsun and Token and the rest of the gang following in his navy blue Prius. With his left arm spread out across the backrest, Craig looks over his shoulder and sees Jimmy waving to him from his usual spot in the Prius’ front seat. He raises his hand in a quick wave back. He can see that Clyde’s stretched out sideways across the back seat, taking advantage of all that extra space. And Token’s just focused on driving, eyes firmly on the road.  
“Craig?” Tweek’s voice is all brittle and scratchy; like maybe he woke himself up screaming from another nightmare this morning. “Would you rather – ngh – be riding in Token’s car?”  
“Nah,” Craig tells him – it’s only the truth – and lets his arm drop around Tweek’s shoulders, scooping him up as close as the seatbelt will allow.  
Tweek sighs and snuggles a little closer – and then yelps and jumps, at the sudden loud click from the passenger seat. “Gah! Mom!”  
“First photo of the trip,” Mrs Tweak says brightly, smiling like she’s trying a little too hard to make this fun. Craig can’t exactly say he gets it, but… Well, it can’t be easy, driving inter-state to clean up your dead mother’s apartment. No matter how many years it’s been since the last time you spoke – or maybe _especially_ if it’s been years.  
“You’re all very lucky,” Mr Tweak drawls from the driver’s seat, “That I’ve had _years_ of practice driving with Tweek screaming in my ear.”  
Mrs Tweak just laughs at him and punches her husband lightly in the arm, but she does sit down properly, facing the road and stuffing the Tweak family’s little digital camera into the glove compartment. They’re nice enough, Tweek’s parents – his mom even pulled her seat forward, to make space for Craig’s legs. Of course, they’re also weird as hell, but in kind of an okay way? Though Craig can’t say he’s looking forward to three days of vegetarian food.  
Slowly, cautiously, Tweek’s sliding back under Craig’s arm again. For some reason, it reminds him of Stripe, sniffing his hand for a treat, and Craig can’t help but smile a little. When he puts his palm over Tweek’s heart, he can feel it beating, fast and frantic, just like the heart of a tiny animal.  
Craig slides his hand up under Tweek’s black sweatshirt, rubbing his thumb across the scar that runs up his stomach. That sweater was a present from Jimmy; handed over at a birthday party that Craig couldn’t attend, though the guys had “helpfully” made sure there was a gift from him, too… “Death Before Decaf,” the sweatshirt proclaims; the slogan wrapped around a big pile of skulls. As far as Tweek-appropriate gifts go, Jimmy really hit it out of the park with that one.  
“Craig?” Tweek’s looking up at him with those huge, blue eyes of his.  
“Uh?” Stupid, Craig thinks. Like Tweek wouldn’t notice someone touching his scar.  
Quick as a flash, Tweek’s tilted his head up to kiss the tracheotomy scar on Craig’s throat, making his breath hitch and his pulse speed up something fierce. Goddamn it.  
He looks down at Tweek, who’s now blushing like crazy. His hands are dangling between his knees, his fingers knotting and unknotting themselves. “Gnk,” Tweek grunts, refusing to meet Craig’s gaze.  
Mrs Tweak’s pulled that little panel in the sun blocker open, seemingly to fix her berry-red lipstick in the mirror. But her eyes are shining, and she’s got one eyebrow raised, so Craig’s pretty sure she caught all of that. “Anyway,” she says; all casual and innocent, playing with the key on that long necklace she’s wearing, pulling it back and forth on the chain, “I hope you’ll like Tweek’s grandparents, Craig. They’re terribly weird,” she adds, throwing a teasing grin in her husband’s direction, “Wouldn’t you say so, Richie?”  
Since he’s sitting right across from the guy, Craig can see how Mr Tweak’s ears are the first thing to turn red, though it doesn’t take long before Tweek’s dad is blushing worse that Tweek is. “Like I told you before, Craig,” he mutters, “My parents are Communists. They’ve, ah, calmed down a bit in recent years, but…” Mr Tweak clears his throat. “Anyway, Craig – after we eat, you want to try _driving_ this lovely rust-bucket?”  
Craig catches himself gaping in the rear-view mirror, and quickly shuts his mouth with a loud clack of teeth. “But,” he says, even though there’s suddenly nothing he wants more in the world, “The whole brain-damage thing…”  
“You don’t _have_ brain damage,” Tweek snaps. “When was the last time you called Clyde “Nugget”, huh?!”  
It’s that “huh” that does it, the way Tweek gets all in his face like a gangster rapper when he says it. Craig lets out a big, drawn-out snort, before he can get himself under control. “Ask Jimmy,” he says, as deadpan as he can manage, “He’s the one keeping track.” Which isn’t exactly a _lie;_ more like a lie by omission. Because Craig knows exactly when the last time he screwed up Clyde’s name was. And it was yesterday. 

They get through Denver and past Thornton before Clyde sends Tweek a text that just says “FOOD?!?!” After Tweek’s read it out loud in his best Clyde voice, Mom says, “What about that dinosaur place,” and Tweek has to explain to Craig that yes, there really is a roadside eatery called The Diner-saurus.  
“They’ve got a Triceratops out front and everything,” he says, while he’s texting Clyde back.  
“When Tweek was going through his dinosaur phase,” Dad chimes in, completely uninvited, “We got into the habit of stopping there, on our way back home.”  
“There’s a duck pond with a Plesiosaurus in it round the back,” Mom adds, and Tweek feels the blood suddenly drain from his face. Oh Jesus and Sidharta, how could he be so stupid? He’d been so eager to show off Craig and all his new friends to his grandparents that he completely forgot about the ducks!  
“I used to threaten to throw Tweek in,” Dad goes on, and Tweek is hit by a sudden memory of being held up and swooshed down over that pond, almost skimming the water with his nose. “One time I held him upside down, and sort of shook him over the pond, you know? And then all these little Lego bricks fell out of his pockets, and right into the water!”  
“Child abuse,” Tweek says, because that’s what’s expected of him.  
“You paid dearly for that one!” Mom shakes her head. “The ducks thought they were food, you know? So Richard had bites all the way up his arms from grabbing every last piece of Lego, so the poor ducks wouldn’t choke to death!”  
Craig’s doing his best not to laugh, holding one hand in front of his mouth, and it would be the cutest thing in the world if Tweek didn’t suddenly have something way more urgent to worry about. “It’s, it’s still too cold to eat outside, though,” Tweek yells, dearly hoping his parents will get the hint. “So we should all just stay in the diner today! Okay?!”  
Mom turns around in her seat and gives him the strangest look – which is fair enough, since their usual m.o. is to end any visit to the Diner-saurus by opening a tin of sweet-corn for the ducks, and spreading it out on the tiles next to that pond. But doesn’t she get it, how weird if would be if his friends saw… well, _that?_ Tweek gives her the most discreet shake of his head he can manage, and Mom shrugs before she turns back around. Message received, even if she doesn’t get what his deal is. 

The Diner-saurus is exactly the kind of decaying shithole Craig loves. When was this place even _built,_ in the 1960’s? There is indeed a Triceratops guarding the entrance, mouth open in a welcoming snarl, but the paint on the thing is starting to peel off in brown and olive green flakes. Tweek doesn’t seem to notice, though, and it’s like Craig gets a little glimpse of what he must’ve been like as a kid, _outside_ of school, when Tweek bounds out of the car to rub the dinosaur’s snout. Craig climbs out more slowly, leaning on the car door to watch while Token neatly slots the Prius into the space next to theirs. There’s only three other cars here, in the whole parking lot. People aren’t exactly flocking down here for bronto-burgers, or whatever it is they serve up.  
Tweek suddenly turns around, and it’s like his blush lights him up from the inside. Craig can’t _not_ smile.  
“He used to have to jump to do that,” Mr Tweak says, getting out of the Datsun and slamming the door. Looks like he’s hurrying to make space for Jimmy, so Craig wordlessly follows him rather than walk around the back of the car.  
“Boys,” Mrs Tweak is yelling, waving that little brick of a digital camera at Token and the others, “Go over to the Triceratops, okay? Let’s get a photo of you all!”  
Craig’s almost surprised by how much he likes the idea. His long legs take him across the parking lot fast enough to catch Tweek’s quiet “Mom, come _on…_ ” Slipping an arm around Tweek’s waist, Craig leans down and whispers, “Want me to give you a boost, so you can ride him?”  
Tweek’s elbow in his ribs is totally worth it, and even though he hears the growl in Tweek’s voice as he asks, “Like a little kid, you asshole,” it’s still pretty obvious that his boyfriend’s totally not mad.  
Way back where the cars are, Craig can hear Clyde’s delighted shout, “That’s a diplodocus! Behind the house, oh my God!” Followed by Jimmy’s good-natured laughter and Mr Tweak saying there’s also a Pterodactyl in the men’s toilets.  
“Tweek should totally sit on that thing,” Token remarks casually as he joins them, hands shoved down the pockets of his dark purple windbreaker.  
“What,” Tweek snaps, whipping his head around, but Token’s smile is so innocent that Tweek’s completely thrown.  
“I just figure, you’re probably the lightest,” Token tells him, so matter-of-factly that Craig has to turn around for a second so Tweek won’t see him grin. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to risk _Clyde_ climbing up there, you know?”  
“Hey,” Clyde throws his arm around Token’s shoulders, all pretend-pissed, “Are you saying I’m fat? Because I’ll seriously tickle your ass off, man,” he adds, failing to make that sound anything like a threat. Token’s only response is a sidelong glance, one of his trademarked _you-can’t-be-serious_ stares. He does shake Clyde’s arm off though, and takes a few steps to the side.  
“Token’s K-Kryptonite is being t-t-tickled,” Jimmy cheerfully informs Tweek. “So, you g-gonna ride that d-dinosaur, or what?”  
“It’s a _Triceratops,_ ” Tweek says, with all the dignity he can muster; and Craig has to turn away again because Tweek’s just too damn cute. “And anyway, Craig’s pretty light, too. Even _I_ can pick him up!”  
“That’s true,” Token concedes, and something in his tone makes the hairs on Craig’s neck stand up. “Clyde?”  
“Hey, wait a minute,” Craig begins, but suddenly Token’s grabbed his right leg and Clyde’s grabbed his left. And that’s how Craig finds himself clutching the neck frond of the Triceratops statue, legs dangling down on either side of its massive head. At least there are no spikes on the neck; but it’s surprisingly slippery up here, so that’s not doing much for his peace of mind.  
Down there on the ground, Jimmy’s doubled over laughing, with his crutches spread out the way a giraffe spreads its front legs when it’s leaning down to drink. Clyde and Token are hanging off each other, howling like hyenas, and Tweek’s looking up at him with the world’s most unrepentant grin stretched across his face.  
“Goddamn it, fine.” It really is a long way down from here, so Craig has to reach a bit to find his usual calm and rational tone of voice. “Let’s just take the damn photo already!” 

“So what _is_ halloumi,” Clyde asks, leaning over to peer at the veggie burger Mom’s holding. She and Dad the only ones still eating; Craig and the rest of the gang all devoured their meat burgers like they think it’s the last meat they’ll get to see for days. Even Tweek’s down to picking at what’s left of his fries; he was hungrier than he thought when they walked in here.  
“It’s a kind of cheese,” Dad answers, since Mom’s still got her mouth full. “Nice and thick, so we’ll just have a couple chunks of that, instead of a burger patty.” He’s nearly done eating, and while he’s been talking, Mom has cut a piece off her last chunk of halloumi, which she now holds out to Clyde on the tip of her knife.  
Clyde picks it off, eyeing it so suspiciously that Tweek’s hard pressed not to laugh at him. He takes a small, cautions bite, chews it… then grins, before he shoves the whole thing in his mouth.  
“You are _such_ a child, Nugget,” Craig says – then instantly freezes up. Mom and Clyde both go on pause too, in mid-chew, while Token and Jimmy look at each other and start to laugh awkwardly.  
Tweek slides his hand over Craig’s under the table, and squeezes it as hard as he dares. But what can he say? Oh yay, that was the first slip-up you’ve had all day? Luckily Dad’s not good at letting things go quiet for too long, but not-so-luckily he’s always trying to be _funny._ So what comes out of Dad’s mouth is, “Well, I know Nugget’s taking over for Token when we leave, but how’d you like to take over for _me,_ Jimmy?” Then he spears his last three fries with his fork and proceeds to eat them all at once.  
“Are you s-s-serious?” Jimmy’s instantly forgotten about Craig’s little slip-up. His eyes are practically bugging out of his face, the lazy one sliding off to one side as if this is all too much excitement for it to deal with.  
“Jimmy,” Dad says with his mouth full; then quickly swallows when Mom pointedly clears her throat. “Your mother drove all the way to our house with a _massage table_ stuffed inside her little Mazda, and repaired my back in a single afternoon. So when she told me you could use the practice…” Dad shrugs and spreads his arms. “I figured it’s the least I can do to repay her.” Okay, so that’s like, _Jedi-level_ sneakily helping Jimmy out, and if Tweek wasn’t so worried about Craig right now, he’d feel downright impressed. But Craig is staring straight ahead, and refusing to meet his eyes or even squeeze his hand back.  
“But my m-mom’ll do that m-m-massage thing for anybody,” Jimmy’s saying, like he really wants to take Dad up on his offer, but feels like he shouldn’t. “And I d-don’t even have a learners’ p-p-permit yet! There’s a guy at the D-DMV who’s g-got it in for me,” he adds, with some genuine venom in his voice.  
This is the first time Tweek’s heard of Jimmy being denied a practice license because of his disability. It’s so damn unfair – of all people, Jimmy could really _use_ a car, and it’s not like he’d be an irresponsible driver, either.  
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Mom chimes in, putting her hand on Jimmy’s arm, “It’s not technically illegal, is it, if there’s an experienced driver in the car? And Richard’s been driving since before any of you were born!”  
“But I haven’t been able to teach a _single person_ yet,” Dad goes on, launching into a _very_ familiar complaint. “Tweek’s refusing to learn because he doesn’t think his _concentration’s_ good enough, or something like that. Keeps pulling the ADHD-card on me!”  
Tweek growls, “That’s not funny, Dad! What if I killed someone, or…” Or put someone in a coma, he thinks, Like Craig. Nope, no _way_ is Tweek ever getting behind the wheel of a car, end of story.  
“And let’s not mention how _someone_ doesn’t want to learn _just because,_ eh?” Dad shoots Mom a look that’s all eyebrows and teeth, which she waves away with a flick of her wrist. “Seriously, I’d enjoy the hell out of it. I’d feel like I’d ascended to the next Dad-level,” he adds, fishing the tin of Green Giant out of Mom’s handbag.  
“Um, I don’t think we’re supposed to bring in our own food, Mr Tweak,” Token says, and Mom chokes on her haloumi burger when she starts to laugh.  
“This is just for the ducks out back,” Dad explains, while he’s casually slapping Mom between her shoulder blades.  
“Huh? Can they even _eat_ that,” Jimmy asks, not stuttering at all for once.  
“Oh, ducks _love_ sweet-corn,” Dad says, as he pulls the little tab on the lid to open the box. “They’re big fans of lettuce too, and all sorts of oats. But you should never, ever give them bread.”  
“Or Lego,” Tweek mutters, and is rewarded by a quick, unguarded laugh from Craig. Next thing he knows, Craig’s even flipped his hand over, and wound his own fingers through Tweek’s.  
Clyde and Jimmy both decide to tag along with Dad, because apparently watching ducks eat sweet-corn is interesting as hell. _Jesus._ Mom, who’s still eating, shoves the last piece of haloumi burger in her mouth and gets up, chewing as fast as she can. That’s when Tweek finally registers which skirt she’s wearing, and it takes real _effort_ not to growl out loud. That’s the infamous duck skirt – one of the weirder pieces of clothing his mother owns, though thank God and Buddha that she’s at least just wearing her black sweater with it. Because well… That skirt is a _lot_. Not only is it covered in different types of ducks, who come in colors and patterns that ducks definitely don’t have in nature. The ducks are also printed on top of quarter-sized, dark brown _polka-dots._ Tweek doesn’t claim to be any kind of fashion expert, but he figures one pattern per skirt should be _more_ than enough. His mother _loves_ that skirt, though. In fact, it’s one of the few _new_ things he can remember her buying, like _ever_. She’d ordered it off some website, and it had arrived by _courier_ instead of the normal mailman, so it must’ve been expensive. He was maybe nine years old back then, ten at most, but Tweek still remembers Mom twirling in front of the mirror, laughing because she was so happy that she’d bought the right size. That was before she’d _ripped up_ the invoice and shoved it to the very bottom of the recycling bin, and made Tweek _swear_ not to tell Dad about it. She’d even bought them both an ice-cream on their way to Tweak Bros, to seal the deal, so it must’ve been a Saturday. Less busy in the mornings then, so Dad would have left them to sleep in and opened on his own. And Tweek would’ve helped out pretty much the whole day, because he didn’t have any friends to go play with.  
“Babe?” From the tone of Craig’s voice, just shy of worried, Tweek can tell he must’ve been zoning out. “You want to go, too?”  
“Nah,” Tweek replies, as casually as humanly possible. He’s got no intention whatsoever of joining them out there. He used to _love_ feeding those ducks when he was a kid, but now? Now it’s better to sit this one out, than to let everyone else see how weird things can get. After all, Mom’s only wearing that skirt because of what a good _photo-op_ this is, but no way.  
Dad slips out the door, gently nudging a big mallard away with the side of his shoe. There are mostly brown ducks here, and they all seem to know what tinned vegetables are, flocking around Dad’s feet and quacking so loud that you can hear them through the glass. Now Mom’s sat down on the side of the pond, and is passing Dad a fork that she must’ve taken from their table. Dad’s starting to scrape the sweet-corn out, while the ducks are going crazy with anticipation. Clyde’s filming the whole thing on his phone, and fair enough, maybe there _are_ a lot of ducks. Good thing his parents brought a big tin. Tweek can see how Jimmy’s being extra careful, so he won’t accidentally kick or trip over a duck, before he sinks down on the stone railing opposite Mom.  
“Well, I might as well see what the fuss is about,” Token suddenly says, pushing his chair back. “Craig, if they bring the bill? Just hide it under my plate, okay?”  
“Sure,” Craig shrugs, like he doesn’t mind if Token stays or goes. But, as soon as Token’s slipped outside after the others; his hand comes sliding up the back of Tweek’s sweater. “Nice of him,” he mutters, hot breath blowing Tweek’s hair away from his neck. “Giving us some privacy.”  
Tweek’s just about to lean in closer; he _knows_ what’s about to come and he can practically _taste_ the kiss already…  
Token’s wordless shout of surprise makes his head snap up, and to his horror, Tweek sees one lone mallard flying past his friend, right into the restaurant – making a beeline for _him._ “Ah, shit,” he groans, pushing his own chair back so at least that damn bird won’t land on the _table._  
Sure enough, the duck lands gracefully in Tweek’s lap, quacking up a storm while it folds its wings back. Stretching its long neck towards him; obviously begging to be stroked. Fine – it can’t be helped, can it.  
“Honey,” Craig whispers, startled out of his usual stoic drawl, “What the hell?”  
Tweek looks up from running his fingertips down the length of the duck’s neck. “These guys are _way_ too tame for their own good,” he says, and that’s _technically_ not a lie. And because he knows that animals are _Craig’s_ kryptonite, Tweek adds, “You want to pet him?”  
The distraction works. Craig gives him a rare, unguarded smile – like he hasn’t realized at all that Clyde’s pushed past Token and pointed his phone at _them,_ now. “Hey there,” he says, reaching out slowly so he won’t startle the duck. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” It’s almost worth it, watching Craig reverently stroke the feathers of the duck’s chest. Tweek’s not at all worried about the duck biting his boyfriend, not when _he’s_ got it sitting in his lap, long neck stretched out across his chest. Maybe it will all be okay, he tells himself. If he can manage to _limit_ the weirdness to this one duck, he can still salvage the trip.


	2. I'll kick you into the damn sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello there, it's been a hot minute! Real life got in the way of me writing, but here's a new chapter - finally!
> 
> One of the reasons I've been busy as hell is that my friend and I have a webcomic going on Tapas - chapter one is done now and chapter two has started up, so if you want to dive in head first and balls deep (sorry!) then there's lots for you to read in one big chunk! You can find it here:
> 
> https://tapas.io/series/Flowers-of-Russia/info
> 
> ALSO: We have more Ghosting for Beginners fan art, check out this gorgeous and adorkable drawing of Esther and Lisa/Clydette by@_abricots! ! I love them so much I can't even:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/CHdi_3mJOLB/
> 
> Anyway - this chapter should probably come with a WARNING because it includes Tweek's grandparents, haha. Proceed at your own risk!

So Mom gets her damn duck-themed family photo after all, with Tweek sitting front and center holding that duck in his lap like it’s a baby or something. Dad stands behind him with a hand on his shoulder, and Mom on the side, to show off her duck skirt. Grinning from ear to ear, of course, since things have worked out even better (for her, obviously – not for Tweek) than she’d hoped.  
After the duck has decided it’s done cuddling Tweek and flown off, dropping a parting blob of shit on the shoulder of Clyde’s black taco sweatshirt, it’s high time to leave.  
“So,” Token clears his throat, “About the check…”  
“Oh, I’ve got it, son,” Dad says firmly, swiftly crossing the floor to meet their waiter, who’s been walking towards their table, card-machine in hand, half-way.  
“I could –” Token begins, pulling his own wallet out.  
Dad cuts him short, holding his left hand up like a traffic cop and smiling _very_ firmly. “There’s being nice, Token,” Dad keys in his pin, “And then there’s cutting a man’s balls off.”  
Poor Token looks so lost and confused. “Uh,” he replies, and looks _right_ at Tweek like he’s hoping for some clue about what he should say or do. Tweek’s lucky that Mom comes to his rescue.  
“Sometimes,” Mom says, putting her hand on Token’s back, “You have to let us grownups take care of you. Okay, Token?”  
“I guess,” Token smiles almost shyly, and ducks his head. “Thanks.”  
“Stupid duck,” Clyde mutters. He’s clumsily trying to wipe the bird-shit off with a napkin, only he can’t quite see what he’s doing. His sweater’s another Jimmy gift; there’s a skeleton chomping down on Mexican food printed on the front, along with the words “Hope They Serve Tacos in Hell”. This is because Jimmy, who’s wearing his own “Cereal Killer” sweater, texted Tweek _and_ Clyde this morning and asked them to coordinate. Craig and Token are probably feeling left out, but Jimmy insists there aren’t any sweatshirts with stuff _they_ like to be had from that store – though Tweek’s had a look, and there _is_ a pancake-themed T-shirt in the ladies’ section.  
“Hold s-still,” Jimmy’s saying, resting his hip against the side of the table and spitting on another napkin.  
“It obviously didn’t appreciate being filmed,” Craig drawls, smirking at Clyde while he pulls Tweek into the circle of his arms, holding him from behind. “So it serves you right.”  
“It serves you right, _N-N-Nugget,”_ Jimmy corrects him, all deadpan.  
Craig’s left arm immediately shoots past the side of Tweek’s face, and of course he’s giving Jimmy the finger – to Jimmy’s obvious delight. 

They switch up the seating order, once they’re all back outside. It’s a done deal that Clyde’s taking over for Token and driving the Prius, so Token can get some rest. But Craig’s kind of surprised when Tweek and his mom put their heads together for a couple seconds, and then go line up outside the Prius. “Babe,” he says, raising his eyebrow and making it a question.  
“I’d be a distraction, right?” Tweek’s smiling up at him, and looking way too cute for his own good. “When you’re practicing? I mean, I’m not great at keeping quiet, so…” He shrugs, and even his shrug is cute.  
“And we wouldn’t want to pick up any driving tips by accident,” Mrs Tweak adds, so innocently that she’s _probably_ being funny.  
“Plus, whoever isn’t driving gets the back seat to himself,” Tweek adds, which is when Craig suddenly understands what they’re up to. They’re making sure Jimmy will get to stretch his legs out when it’s Craig’s turn. “Long-legged people bonus, right?”  
It’s such a subtle move that for once; Jimmy doesn’t seem to catch on at all – that’s good. He’s so eager to finally get behind the wheel that who gets to go first is never really up for debate. Not that Craig minds; he never managed to get that many driving lessons in with his own parents before the accident. Besides, Mom literally doesn’t have the patience to teach you anything – if you don’t get it right the first time you try, oh man. Apparently she made some trainee girl _cry_ at the bank where she works, so at least Craig knows it’s not just him. And he and Dad couldn’t even drive around the parking lot at the old mall without getting into a fight. So it’s probably safer for everyone if Craig just sits back and watches for a while.  
Tweek’s dad saunters over with a takeaway cup in one hand and his car keys in the other. “Drive, vassal,” he tells Jimmy, dangling the keys in front of his nose, “While I enjoy my coffee.”  
“As you c-c-command, Lord Tweak,” Jimmy replies; grinning from ear to ear as he snatches the keys.  
“Gah! Craig?!” Suddenly Tweek’s there, throwing his arms around him a quick hug; with that huge green parka he wears flapping open like he doesn’t even feel the cold. “You know that it’s not that I don’t want to sit with you, right?!”  
Craig takes a second to untangle that sentence in his head, and then he has to smile. Damn, Tweek can literally read him like a book. “I know that, honey,” he whispers into Tweek’s hair, rubbing his chin like a cat against his boyfriend’s head. “Of course I know that.”

Craig catches himself thinking that it’s kind of unfair, how Jimmy’s already so good at this. He effortlessly glides the Datsun past the triceratops and out of the parking lot, past the semi-trailer that’s just pulling into the diner. It’s an asshole thing to think, though, and he knows it. It’s not like Jimmy ever bitches about having cerebral palsy; he just gets on with things. A license and a car would just _facilitate_ him getting on with things. Jimmy would probably _love_ to give Token a ride now and then.  
“Feeling thirsty, Craig,” Mr Tweak asks from the passenger seat, pulling Craig back into the present.  
Craig is startled into laughing. “Always, Mr Tweak,” he drawls, as soon as he’s got himself under control. It’s not like he can forget making an ass out of himself, that time the Tweaks had him over for Christmas dinner.  
“Am I m-missing something here?” Jimmy doesn’t get all butt-hurt if he thinks you’re keeping a secret, not the way Token does. He can get dangerously curious, though.  
“Just a case of what you boys call Nugget-speak,” Mr Tweak says, before Craig can even open his mouth. “Oh, and honestly, Richard is fine. You can call my dad Mr Tweak instead,” he adds, with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “He _is_ the one who came up with the name.”  
“Oh, I can’t w-wait to m-m-meet the Ur-Tweak,” Jimmy declares, while Craig is still chewing over this offer of being on a first-name basis with Tweek’s dad. Does that even feel right, he wonders, while Mr Tweak laughs hard enough to squirt coffee out his nose.  
“The Ur-Tweak?! Oh wow, he’s gonna love that,” Mr Tweak says, shaking his head while he wipes his face with the sleeve of his sweater. “I mean, you won’t be able to tell, because he’s kind of…” He tilts his head as he thinks about it, “Ice cold? But not in a mean way,” Mr Tweak adds hurriedly, “He just doesn’t really talk much.”  
Huh. So that must mean it’s Tweek’s grandma who’s the crazy one, Craig decides.  
“There’s a cuddly w-way to be ice c-cold,” Jimmy says, and looking in the rear-view mirror, Craig can see that both his bushy eyebrows have disappeared under his fringe.  
“Well, his _heart’s_ in the right place, you know? For instance,” Mr Tweak stops to take a long sip of his coffee, and then stash the paper cup under his seat, “After Helen and I ran away from the Golden Lotus? I had to call home, because we were stuck at that police station in the middle of nowhere, with no car, and no money. I said, “Dad, guess what? Turns out we joined a cult after all.” Then he drove God knows how many miles to pick us up, at crazy-o’clock in the morning. Didn’t say a word, just tossed me the keys to the Jetta and gave Helen a hug. And the only thing he said, the _only_ thing,” Mr Tweak taps the dashboard for emphasis, “Was when I pulled up in our driveway four hours later. Then he eyeballed me and went, “Told you so.” ”  
“Hah!” Jimmy’s grinning, though he’s also completely focused on driving. From the set of his shoulders, Craig can tell how hard Jimmy’s concentrating. “The Ur-Tweak sounds p-pretty cool.”  
“So is _Mrs_ Tweak the fun one,” Craig asks, just so they won’t think he’s not interested. But this time, Mr Tweak loses his shit so badly that he’s wiping away _tears_ by the time he’s done.  
“That… Depends on…” Mr Tweak has to draw a deep breath, and you can see how the guy is literally willing himself not to laugh, “On what you define as fun!”

“What are they like?” Mom folds her hands like the prayer emoji, tapping her fingertips against her lips while she thinks about how to phrase herself. “Well, I mean – they are the most perfectly lovely and caring couple in the world. _That_ should go without saying. And they may be the _tiniest_ bit eccentric, but…” She smiles and shrugs, “Well, I just think that adds to their charm!”  
“…Yeah,” Tweek says dubiously, looking out the window. “All right.” As far as he’s concerned, “charm” isn’t a word you can use to describe his grandparents. Not that he doesn’t love them, because he really, really does. “You just… maybe you need to _know_ them,” he finds himself saying, for the sake of honesty. “Like, for a while?”  
“Oh dude,” Clyde immediately blurts out from behind the wheel, “Are they scary?”  
“Nooo,” Mom sounds like she’s assuring a little kid that there’s no bogey man in the attic, “Not at all! I mean,” She looks up at the Prius’ ceiling for a second, like she’s gathering her thoughts, “David’s pretty quiet. And Rose is pretty fierce. But there’s _nothing_ they do that doesn’t come from a place of love.”  
“Okay, so now they sound terrifying,” Token deadpans, leaning over the passenger seat.  
That makes Mom laugh and gently smack him in the shoulder. “Listen,” she says, “I’m not explaining this very well. But – it’s been a year, hasn’t it, Tweek? Since they hired Emnet?”  
“Year and a _half,”_ Tweek corrects her, rolling his eyes. It’s totally up to him to tell this story, isn’t it? “Right, so my grandparents were driving to Tweak Bros one morning – _their_ Tweak Bros,” he adds, in case there’s any doubt, “In my grandma’s Jetta.” There’s a child safety lock on the car door, he realizes, running his finger over it. He must’ve ridden in Token’s Prius like a hundred times by now, how come he’s never noticed that before? “They were listening to local radio, and there was this thing on the news about this Ethiopian lady getting arrested for starting a fire in her apartment building. Like, literally on the floor.” Tweek flicks the child safety lock on; then pulls it back. “So the fire alarm went off; and the police were saying they’d caught this arsonist, right? Only _she_ said she was just making coffee. By roasting the beans on the _floor,”_ he adds, flicking the lock back on with a satisfying little click. “Because that’s how she used to make coffee back in her village, in Ethiopia.”  
“Hey Tweek,” Token says, nodding in the general direction of the car door, _just_ as Tweek unlocks in again.  
“Gah!” Tweek guiltily yanks his hand back. “Sorry!” Jesus, what if he breaks the door mechanism and they can’t get it open, and then they’ll have to take it to an auto-shop, which will slow them down by _hours_ and hours, not to mention _he’ll_ have to pay for it all! Tweek doesn’t say any of this out loud, but the effort of keeping it all in is practically making his teeth vibrate.  
“Anyway,” Mom is saying, picking up the thread while she discreetly nudges Tweek with her elbow, like she’s saying _stop freaking out_ because Mom can literally read him like a book, “Rose drove out to the police station to pay that poor woman’s bail and offer her a job. The officer she talked to asked her if she was nuts, but Rose said, “Listen. This woman is _passionate_ about her coffee. That’s all I’m interested in.” So that’s how Emnet wound up at Tweak Bros! She and her husband are refugees, and since he was looking for work too, Rose wound up hiring them both!”  
“Wow,” Clyde says, looking over his shoulder. His eyes are wide, and he sounds honestly impressed. “Tweek, you’ve got one badass grandma!”  
“Clyde,” Token says, as he slides back in his seat to face the road. He sounds kind of strict, and Clyde gulps and slows down a little; not that he was _that_ close to the pickup truck in front of them. Close enough to see the “Beam Me Up, Jesus” bumper sticker though. “Don’t brake my car.”  
Clyde lets out a loud, surprised “Bah-HAH!” and Tweek is seriously impressed that he doesn’t swerve. Mom’s giggling like a crazy lady next to him, and Tweek can see Token’s sly grin in the rear-view mirror.  
“I don’t bust out the Anastasia accent for just anyone,” Token drawls, raising his eyebrows at Tweek, who shakes his head and grins back at him. Damn, he’s got the best friends in the world.  
“So Tweek,” Clyde asks, without turning his head at all, “Is your grandma the crazy one?”  
The only answer Tweek can come up with is a strangled “Uh?!”  
“I mean,” Clyde goes on, and it’s kind of weird, talking to him without any kind of eye contact, _“One_ of them has _got_ to be a little crazy, right?”  
Tweek and Mom don’t even look at each other for two seconds, before they start laughing – howling, really. Through his tears, Tweek sees Clyde and Token exchange a quick, concerned glance, like they’re using friendship telepathy to debate whether or not they should swing by an asylum on the way.  
“Define crazy,” Tweek pants, slumping back in his seat and pressing his hand down over his chest, because laughing this hard actually _hurts,_ while Mom is fanning her face with her hand. Jesus, if that what they’ve been thinking, the guys are in for a surprise! 

It’s just after four when Clyde takes them past the town sign, and from there it’s less than fifteen minutes until they’re outside the old yellow house he pretty much grew up in. Tweek just feels his heart swell with how familiar everything is. There’s the tire swing in the front yard that grandpa put up for _him,_ suspended from the chestnut tree. The rose bushes are still clawing their way up the walls, too, though the blossoms are long gone. And grandma’s little black Fiat (which she got after her Jetta finally gave up the ghost last year) is sitting at the curb out front – almost as though it’s been waiting, like a faithful dog, for them to arrive. She’s left the driveway clear on purpose; Tweek knows his grandma that well. He can see movement behind the kitchen curtains – they’re the lacy kind that run on an elastic band, straight across the window – and now it’s his turn to give Mom a nudge.  
“Grandma’s looking forward to seeing _you_ again,” she tells him, smiling. What she means, of course, is _You and Craig._ “Token, you can park in the driveway – Richard’s still got his old garage key.”  
It’s a good thing, Tweek realizes; that they went back here for New Year’s. That’s when he came out to his entire extended family at once, because there’s nothing like being kidnapped and stabbed to put the stuff you’re afraid of into perspective.  
If he closes his eyes, the whole scene replays itself like a bad home movie against the back of his eyelids. It had been January first, at exactly ten fifteen in the morning. Uncle Martin and Aunt Diana on the big sofa, clinging to one twin each, looking exhausted but puzzled. His two other cousins, Thor and TBT, sprawled on the floor, where they’d been playing on the ancient ATARI that’s somehow still working. Uncle Simon in his bathrobe, straight out of the shower, blowing on a mug of coffee. Aunt Jo on the love seat, looking up from her romance novel. Grandma coming out of the kitchen, literally carrying a pie in her hands like some character in a Christmas movie. Grandpa in the recliner with his sore leg propped up and the newspaper spread across his lap. And his own parents hovering behind him as Tweek cleared his throat again, as if they were just as nervous as _he_ had been, as if that had even been _possible._  
“Yeah, so,” Tweek had said, “I’m gay. Happy New Year.”  
There had been a long, drawn-out silence, before Grandma had put the pie down on the table and said, “Not like I didn’t see _that one_ coming.” Then she’d wrapped him up in a big hug, oven mittens and all; and it had been as though Grandma moving had been the signal for everybody else to start breathing again. Then there had been more hugs, and questions – yes, he had a boyfriend, no, they weren’t allowed to video-call him – before Grandpa had made some testy remark about whether they were ever going to eat that pie. And that had been it, _no problemo_ in El Casa del Tweak. Just hugs; and pie – and obviously coffee. Sure, Tweek had been sweating so badly that he’d had to change his shirt afterwards, but it had all been okay. _He’d_ been okay.  
Last time they visited had also been when Grandma got all the “don’t you dare try and kill yourself” stuff out of her system. She and Grandpa drove all the way to Denver – _twice!_ – to visit Tweek back while he was in mental hospital, but those times, Grandma had held it all in. “If I have an ulcer now, it’s on _you,”_ Grandma had told him on New Year’s Eve, jabbing her bony finger in Tweek’s chest. Tweek’s known all along, though, that getting mad at you is how Grandma shows she loves you.  
By the time the Prius has come to a halt, and the Datsun’s reversed up to the garage, his grandparents are already out of the house. Both wearing coats that are flapping open, and yard shoes – lime green Crocks, in Grandpa’s case. Mom laughs and pushes the button that makes her window go down. “David,” she yells, sticking her whole head out, “When did you get Crocks? Did you know I’ve got Crocks too!”  
Clyde snorts, and Token looks over his shoulder to raise a single eyebrow at Tweek. Tweek just shrugs in response, the guys should _know_ what Mom’s like by now.  
Grandpa seems to think that’s a perfectly normal way to say hi, though. “Figures! They’re good shoes,” he yells back, as he limps over to the Prius. The limp’s already less noticeable than it was at New Year’s. Slowly but surely, Grandpa seems to be recovering from his knee replacement.  
“We bought you some plant food,” Grandma says, pulling Tweek into a hug as soon as he’s popped the car door open. “So come on in and eat.” She’s thin but wiry, and her grip is like a vice, but Tweek is still startled by how _small_ Grandma suddenly feels.  
“Oh, so _you’re_ not vegetarians, thank God,” Clyde exclaims a he steps out of the car. Then he immediately turns bright red. “Sorry. Uh, I’m Clyde?”  
“Smooth,” Token tells him, and Grandpa looks up from hugging Mom to emit a single, bemused, “Hah.” For Grandpa, though, that basically equals a regular person laughing so hard they fold over. “I’m Token, by the way. It’s so nice to meet you.”  
“No, that’s just my idiot son and his victims,” Grandma is saying to Clyde, like Token hadn’t spoken at all. She sounds like she one hundred percent means it, too, but that’s just Grandma being Grandma.  
“It’s great to see you too, Mom,” Dad yells from over by the garage, waving his arm over his head before he slides the garage door up. He’s parked on the kerb, though, which is odd. Out of the corner of his eye, Tweek can see Token and Clyde exchange another one of those _looks._  
Now Craig’s climbing out of the driver’s seat – all lanky and gorgeous. Tweek suddenly wants to run over there, wrap his arms around him and just breathe in the smell of him, but no. It’s one thing to _tell_ his grandparents that he has a boyfriend. It’s quite another to engage in PDA in front of them.  
So instead he just watches, as Craig hurries around the car to pop the trunk, and starts pulling stuff out. Tweek’s backpack, the big Eskimo freezer box that Dad stuffed with vegetarian sausages, burger patties and a whole frozen spinach lasagne; Craig lines them all up against the kerb, neatly and quickly, while Jimmy gingerly climbs out of the back seat.  
Craig’s probably just nervous about backing Dad’s car into the garage. That’s where Grandpa’s beautiful old Pontiac squats, like a dragon in its cave; so Tweek can definitely relate. Jimmy must be a pretty confident driver, though, since he’s hobbling round the Datsun’s nose to take Craig’s place in the driver’s seat.  
But then, Dad yells, “We won’t be more than an hour,” and jumps back into the passenger seat – what the hell? As the Datsun shoots back down towards the main road, Tweek can see that Dad’s got his phone tucked under his ear, but then they’re gone.  
Tweek runs down to help Craig carry all that stuff; he’s already got Tweek’s backpack on and the Eskimo slung over one shoulder. It hasn’t been _that_ long since he got out of rehab, but Craig almost seems to enjoy stuff like carrying too much, running too fast, working too hard.  
“The local DMV,” Craig tells him, while Tweek tries to tug the freezer box off his arm. “Honey, I’m fine. That’s where they went. Now quit it.” He gives Tweek a look that’s almost stern, before he ducks his head and kisses him right on the lips, Jesus! Then he lopes off, while Tweek is still recovering from the shock of kissing a _boy,_ in front of his _grandparents._  
“Well,” Mom says, and her tone is maybe a little too chirpy, “Tweek told you all about Craig _last_ time, didn’t he?”  
“Helen,” Grandma drawls, “It’s not like he needed to tell me he was gay. I could have told you that, _years_ ago.”  
“Well, I mean, uh,” Mom squeaks, before she hurries past Craig to grab some of the remaining luggage.  
“I’m kind of glad you didn’t,” Tweek tells Grandma, and he’s only half kidding. 

“The Tweak country pile,” Tweek’s dad had called the house, with a terrible fake British accent. Craig had been startled into laughing, because that house looks just as tired and saggy as his own; but still. You see it as soon as you walk through the doors; where generations of children’s drawings, faded photos and newspaper clippings have all been framed in a sort of organic collage that appears to have started growing on the wall next to the front door, like a tree. You can see the love. One “branch” of the picture tree stretches _over_ the door, then climbs up over the staircase – literally following it along the floor level – and you can just see it spreading out over the upstairs wall, too. Tweek features in some of the photos – Craig spots one where he’s tiny and dragging a very patient cat around; he can’t have been more than four or five years old.  
There’s a long picture that’s got pride of place right in the middle of the gallery wall, if you can call it that, with Tweek’s shaky, all-caps signature in the right-hand corner. The frame must’ve been custom built, Craig realizes, as he walks up to get a closer look. It’s a bunch of people holding hands, in one long line. And it’s been assembled from three A4 sheets stuck together with Scotch tape; which is now starting to turn brown with age. Little Tweek had helpfully written names over every single person – there he is, a self-portrait with spiky yellow hair and a huge smile, sandwiched between his parents. Then there are his grandparents, of course, and what seems to be a small army of uncles – including two guys with darker skin labelled “Uncle Jamie” and “Uncle Buster”, standing next to a guy that at first appears to have caught his head on fire. It takes Craig a second to figure out that what looks like flames is supposed to be red hair.  
“Tweek came how with that in the first grade,” Craig suddenly hears Tweek’s grandmother say, as she peers over his shoulder. “His teacher told the class to draw their family.” There’s a warm note creeping into her stern voice when she talks about Tweek. “That kid at Kinko’s sure looked at me funny, when I brought that in and told him I needed six copies!”  
“Everybody Tweek had drawn got one in the post.” Craig suddenly realizes that Tweek’s mom is standing right next to him, hugging a mint green backpack to her chest and staring up at that long drawing. “Some people had to share though, like Buster and Jamie, since they’re brothers.”  
“Right,” Craig says, because that makes about as much sense as anything related to the Tweaks does.  
“Of course, we were still living here,” she goes on, playfully nudging her mother in law with her shoulder. “So no color photocopy for us.”  
“I should think not,” the older woman huffs, “Living under our roof for free!” Craig’s standing close enough that he can see her little smile, though. At least now he knows why Tweek’s dad had laughed so hard; look up “fun” on Wikipedia, and this lady’s picture will most definitely _not_ be in the article.  
Instead of replying, Tweek’s mom just giggles and kisses her on one leathery cheek, before she reaches up to yank the freezer box down from Craig’s shoulder. Damn, _he_ was going to carry that thing! She disappears towards the kitchen – Craig can see it through the open door at the far end of the hallway; that’s where the smell of freshly roasted coffee is coming from.  
“Craig.” He whips his head around, startled by the sound of his own name. “Come on up,” Tweek’s grandma tells him, already halfway up the stairs. “You and Tweek get the honeymoon suite.”  
Craig blinks. “Excuse me?”

Oh Jesus. Tweek has no idea _when_ or _how_ his grandparents decided that, while the guys all get one of the smaller bedrooms each, he and Craig will be staying in his parents’ old room. It’s like, does the whole _world_ know they’ve slept together?!  
“Since you were in that car crash,” Grandma is telling Craig, who seems to be struggling to pick up his jaw from the floor, “We figured you’d need a decent bed to sleep in.”  
“But,” Tweek hears himself say, “But where are Mom and Dad gonna sleep?” Maybe Grandma hadn’t thought of that; maybe she’ll change her mind and get them to share with the guys – though Jimmy probably needs the space more, so maybe Craig can share with Token while Tweek shares with Clyde, or the other way around by all means because Jesus, anything is better than everybody just _assuming_ that they’ll be –  
“We,” Mom begins, from right behind him.  
“GAH!”  
“We’ll be downstairs,” Mom carries on, putting her hand on Tweek’s back and rubbing it, “On the sofa-bed. Then you boys can all have the run of this floor. Rose and David’s bedroom is on the _second_ floor,” she adds, seemingly for Craig’s benefit.  
“Oh,” Craig says tonelessly, “Kay.”  
Clyde doesn't actually _say_ anything, but he wolf-whistles as he joins them on the landing, with a shit-eating grin stretched across his face.  
“I’ll kick you downstairs,” Craig threatens him – though that only makes Clyde grin even wider. “Dude, I mean it – I’ll kick you into the damn _sun.”_


	3. Don't call me "dude", babe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tweek's grandpa has some "interesting" books in his collection, by a gentleman known as Tuesday Lobsang Rampa (after he legally changed it) but used to be Cyril Hoskin until a private detective tracked him down. You can read all about the exploits of this "real Tibetan lama" here:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lobsang_Rampa  
> and maybe even donate to Wikipedia if you're feeling generous? And I mean, sure, I can _recommend_ reading his book "The Third Eye", but for all the wrong reasons, maybe... ;)
> 
> But anyway... While I love writing and reading South Park fics, I have a bunch of characters of my own, that I co-created and that are literally mine to keep. You can find them in my webcomic, Flowers of Russia, which is on Tapas and updates every Friday. I would really love it if you would give it a chance, and so I come to you, like the good people at Wikipedia, with my hat it my hand (a red wool-blend beanie that I shrank in the wash, but it still _kinda_ fits), saying, "Do you have a few minutes to spare? Five, ten?" If you do, my webcomic is right here:   
> https://tapas.io/series/Flowers-of-Russia/info

“So, um,” Tweek tosses his square green backpack on the double bed. His pale cheeks are glowing with embarrassment. “This is my parents’ old room. Where they spent their wedding night,” he adds, and now he’s blushing so hard he looks like he might just spontaneously combust.  
“The site of the mutual cherry-popping,” Craig drawls, dropping his own bag next to Tweek’s. “Where your mom got high and stripped your dad naked?”  
“Ngh, you asshole,” Tweek growls, spinning around, and he’s being so adorable that Craig just has to grab him and pin his arms down.  
Tweek squirms in his grip, and damn, you forget how strong he is because he’s so little. Five seconds flat, and he’s not only broken Craig’s hold, but pushed him backwards down on the bed, too. “Admit it,” he pants, glaring down at Craig through the blonde curtain of his bangs.  
Craig swallows. “Admit what,” he asks, because it’s probably a good idea if they keep talking. Craig watches the corners of Tweek’s mouth tug upwards as he opens his mouth to answer, and thinks about how easy it would be to kiss him now. To catch Tweek off guard, flip him over, and land himself on top of him. And then he does his very best _not_ to think of that at all.  
“Admit that you’re an asshole.” Tweek’s grinning down at him, and clearly enjoying the hell out of this too.  
Craig sighs theatrically. “It’s already kind of well known,” he drawls, doing his best to sound like he’s bored of this whole thing already. “But okay, sure – I’m an asshole.” Then he tries to sit up – oh, not for real, just a little test run – but no dice. Tweek’s anchored himself firmly, pressing his knees against the mattress and using his torso to push Craig down into the bed. “What?”  
“ _And_ you need to admit that I’m stronger than you.” That grin on Tweek’s face has turned downright sly.  
“Yeah, so,” Craig pretends to relax, and smiles lazily up at Tweek, _“That’s_ not happening.” And then, in the split second when Tweek’s letting his guard down because he’s trying to think of a snappy reply, Craig whips him around. Pinning him down with both hands on the smaller boy’s shoulders, and leaning over him until the two of them are literally breathing into each other’s mouth.  
“Uh,” Craig says, because suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a good idea after all. Not in a house full of people. “We should probably…?”  
Tweek must be thinking the same thing, because he just responds with a throaty “Yeah,” and twists his face to one side, blushing more than ever. Craig clumsily climbs off him, almost stumbles when he’s back on the floor.  
“So anyway…” A soft thump tells him Tweek’s also jumped off the bed. “Mom and Dad keep some stuff in here.” There’s a scraping sound, and Craig glances over to see Tweek pulling the top drawer on the dresser open. “But if I move everything down, I can probably clear us a drawer each?”  
“I don’t mind sharing, babe,” Craig replies, and walks around Tweek, who’s now started putting small piles of carefully folded clothes on the bed. He wants to look at the books on the shelf that lines the wall, both because he needs the distraction and because he secretly loves snooping at other peoples’ bookshelves. This one is… eclectic, to put it mildly. There’s a whole bunch of Readers’ Digest books, their spines alternately blue, red or green, always with at least three if not four titles running down them. Just the idea that you can chop up a book like this and just keep the good bits – and who decides what the good bits are, anyway – kind of makes Craig want to make the pilgrimage to the Readers’ Digest head office, wherever that is, and flip off every single member of staff. Sure, even the janitors, because goddamn it, that’s like the Death Star argument about whether or not Luke Skywalker should’ve blown up all the innocent people building the damn thing. If you choose to work for someone as evil as Darth Vader – or Reader’s Digest – then it’s your own fault if you get swept up in the inevitable revenge plots against them.  
But anyway, this room seems to be where all the leftover books get stashed – there are Agatha Christie novels rubbing shoulders with Sylvia Plath and Rilke; and The Heart of Darkness has been crammed in between a bunch of Robert Heinleins. And there, next to a very battered copy of Jack Kerouac’s Big Sur, Craig spots a few thin volumes by someone called Lobsang Rampa of all things, with names like “Living with the Lama” and “The Third Eye” running down their pastel coloured spines. He pulls that last one out, and starts sniggering as soon as he sees the cover; some dude in a green robe meditating in front of a giant eyeball.  
“What’re you looking at?” Suddenly Tweek’s right there, peering over his shoulder. “Ha, that cover used to scare me when I was little. Those’re my Grandpa’s.” he adds, grinning. “He told me they made sense back when he used to eat mushrooms, and I thought he meant, you know – _actual_ mushrooms?”  
They start laughing at the same time, and Craig shoves the book back on the shelf. He spots a framed photo and picks it up; two men he’s never seen before, holding up a pint-sized Tweek between them. The taller one has a huge black handlebar moustache; the other one’s more clean-cut and bookish-looking, with a side-parting and an argyle sweater. All three of them are grinning from ear to ear, and you can just make out a Ferris wheel in the background.  
“That’s my Uncle John and my Uncle Frank,” Tweek tells him, from over by the dresser. Craig can see that Tweek’s made good on his promise; the two top drawers are empty and he’s put a bunch of clothes in neat little piles on the bed, along with one of those travel hairdryers that fold up. “Well I mean, they’re not _really_ my uncles. But that’s what I’ve always called them. Uncle John was Mom’s teacher in elementary school,” Tweek starts scratching the back of his neck while he talks, “He’s the one who called the authorities on my _other_ grandma. The evil one. And he Mom stayed with him and Uncle Frank until she went to a foster home. They’re a couple,” Tweek says; then laughs at Craig’s surprised expression. “Dude, people were gay in the eighties too, you know!”  
“I know that,” Craig mutters, suddenly all embarrassed. “And don’t call me “dude”, babe.”  
“Duuuude,” Tweek draws the word out, and laughs some more when Craig flips him off. “Anyway, they offered to just keep Mom, because they always wanted kids, and I think she _really_ wanted to stay with them. But…” He shrugs, and it’s not like he needs to say anything else, Craig gets it. “Anyway, remember I said we went to see my uncles for Christmas? That was them.”  
“Right.” Craig remembers now, the Insta-story featuring the Tweak family walking through the snow with two other guys and a couple of dogs – everybody had been zipped up in their parkas to the point where you couldn’t really make out any faces, though – and a couple of grams. One had been Tweek’s hand holding up a mug of eggnog with a Christmas tree in the background, captioned “Merry Christmas”. The other one had been Tweek’s dad on the floor, messing around with one of the dogs; a beautiful long-haired Irish Setter, captioned “Woof”. That probably goes a long way towards explaining why Tweek’s parents were so cool with him coming out and stuff, if he’s practically had gay granddads this whole time.  
By now, Tweek’s managed to fit most of the stuff he took out into the two bottom drawers. There are still a few things on the bed though, including a pair of matching burgundy sweatshirts with “Hemmingway - Phys. Ed.” printed on them in peeling yellow letters.  
“Oh, Hemmingway was my parents’ high school,” Tweek explains, when Craig cautiously lifts one sleeve and rubs his thumb inside it. It’s nice and soft after being washed a million times, and he can’t help but pick the sweater up and hold it out in front of Tweek.  
“This must’ve been your mom’s,” Craig drawls, “Cause it looks like it’d fit you just fine.”  
Tweek just grabs the other sweatshirt off the bed and throws it right at Craig’s face – but hey, he starts laughing again, while Craig untangles the thing from around his head. Craig knew that wouldn’t piss him off for real.  
“You know what,” Craig holds the second sweatshirt up against his own chest, “This’d fit _me.”_ As soon as he’s said that, he’s compelled to try it on. So off comes his hat; before he drops his zip-up hoodie on the bedspread and pulls the thing over his head. And damn if he wasn’t right; it fits him perfectly.  
“Ugh, _fine,”_ Tweek growls, from inside his skull sweatshirt because he’s already in the middle of taking it off. “Gah!” He balls it up and throws it on the bed, then quickly squirms into his mother’s old sweatshirt – that she wore in high school, when she must’ve been even tinier than she is now – but damn if that one doesn’t fit _him_ like a glove, too. Ha! Tweek fussily pulls out the collar of his moss green flannel shirt, while he mutters, “I _hate_ it when you’re right,” which is obviously a total lie.  
There’s a wardrobe in the corner with mirrors set into the doors, and after he’s put his hat back on, Craig pulls Tweek over there. Positions the two of them side by side, before he slides his hand up under Tweek’s shirt and lets it rest against the warm skin on the small of his back. “We should ask your mom if we can keep ‘em. Come on,” he goes on, when he sees Tweek frown and bite down on his bottom lip in the mirror, “What’s the matter, didn’t they _hate_ going to that school?”  
“I _guess_ that’s true,” Tweek mutters, worrying at his lip with his teeth for a minute. “Okay, let’s just unpack first.” Then he leans into Craig’s side and draws a deep breath through his nose. “At least they only smell like laundry. I’d probably develop deep-rooted psychological issues if you started smelling like my dad.”  
Craig slides his hand all the way around to Tweek’s stomach – hello knife scar – and buries his nose in his boyfriend’s hair, laughing quietly. “God,” he mutters, “I forget you can be funny.”  
“Asshole,” Tweek growls back at him, but in a totally affectionate way.

“Oh my gosh,” Mom exclaims, as soon as she sees them coming into the kitchen. “Don’t you two look adorable!” She’s tossed her black sweater over one of the dining chairs and rolled the sleeves of her brown turtleneck up, and is in the middle of chopping up a whole head of iceberg lettuce. Next to her on the counter, there’s a long vine of cherry tomatoes, most of a cucumber and three avocadoes in a row, with that plastic avocado slicer she got Grandma a few years ago balanced precariously on top. “You boys want me to take your picture,” she offers, already grabbing a towel off the cooker and starting to wipe her hands.  
“Sure,” Craig is already pulling his phone out of his pocket, and Tweek gets the feeling that he loves this, wearing matching outfits. He gives Craig a sidelong glance, and Craig is so animated – smiling as he hands his phone over, showing Mom where the button is. Tweek also sees that little twitch flicker across his boyfriend’s face when he notices all the cigarette burn scars that run up her arms.  
Mom spots it too, because she tries to turn it into a joke. “You know,” she says, putting her hand on Craig’s arm, “People used to think my _husband_ did this! You should’ve seen all the random women coming up to me and saying they could help, and “You don’t have to stay with a man like that,” and,” she laughs, shaking her head a little, and Tweek’s pretty sure that Craig can’t hear the strain in her voice, “And I’d be like, “He doesn’t even _smoke!”_ ”  
“Helen,” Grandma gently swats Mom across her butt as she walks past them towards the fridge. “That salad’s not going to make itself!” For as long as Tweek can remember, his grandparents have just treated Mom like she’s their fourth kid.  
“Sorry, Rose,” Mom grins in Granma’s direction, before she holds Craig’s phone up, “Let me just take a couple with Craig’s phone, and then Tweek, can you run out and get – ”  
“Absolutely not,” Tweek cuts her off, because he knows exactly what Mom’s about to say.  
“ – Our camera from the hallway? It’s in my bag,” she goes on, deliberately ignoring him. “But do something cute first!”  
“We’d better do as your mom says,” Craig drawls, sliding an arm around Tweek’s waist and turning him, so that they’re facing Mom side by side.  
“…Okay,” Tweek mutters, letting his head rest against Craig’s shoulder. At least Clyde and Token must still be unpacking; he supposes it’s better to just get this over with before those two come downstairs. 

The thing you notice as soon as you step inside the kitchen; is the plates. Unlike the snarled branches of photos and other treasures that line the hallway, the plates have been put up in a tidy honeycomb pattern on a single wall. It’s the biggest wall in the room, the one that the kitchen table is pressed up against, and it’s almost full. They’re all souvenir plates, Craig realizes, pausing while he puts a knife and fork on either side of one of the plain white plates Tweek’s been setting the table with. After he and Tweek slipped the extender out and mounted it in the middle of the table, Craig was sent to the cutlery drawer, and then the dishwasher, since the drawer only had three forks in it. But anyway – those plates up on the wall – does each of them represent one family trip? He’s not sure if there’s any order to them, and he doesn’t want to ask, not now, anyway. Because while some of those plates are from places he can easily identify, like San Francisco and Palm Springs, some of them have names like Dublin and Tallinn on them, and little foreign flags. So Craig’s not too sure how that question would come out; since he’s never even been to Canada. He’d hate to sound like an envious asshole.  
Tweek’s mom and grandma – Craig has started thinking of them as Mrs Tweak and Mrs Ur-Tweak, thanks a lot, Jimmy – have grilled a small mountain of regular sausages and a modest hill of vegetarian ones, when Jimmy and Tweek’s dad burst in through the front door. There’s a slam, and it’s a good thing Tweek just put down that pitcher of water he’d filled up, because he jumps and yelps like a dog that’s been stepped on. Craig hopes for Token’s sake that he didn’t just piss up the wall of the Tweaks’ tiny downstairs bathroom. But Tweek’s grandma has been taking sauces out of the fridge – ketchup, mustard, and mayo, of all things, lining them up on the counter like little soldiers, and she doesn’t even flinch. She just turns her head and yells, “Richard!” before she turns back and pulls out a bottle of Thousand Island dressing.  
“Sorry, Mom,” Mr Tweak yells, though he doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.  
Mrs Ur-Tweak doesn’t bother answering, and her face just keeps the same blank expression on it. Like she knows her son’s too old to learn not to slam the door, and that shout was just pure reflex. Craig hates to admit it, but this little old lady makes him just the _tiniest_ bit uncomfortable. Because people call _him_ expressionless, but holy shit.  
“Dude,” Clyde yells, dumping the salad bowl on the table hard enough to make Craig’s carefully laid-out place settings jump, before he runs out of the kitchen. “How’d it go, how’d it go?!”  
“I got it,” Jimmy shouts back. When Craig runs joins them in the hallway, Token’s come out of the bathroom, and Jimmy’s there, balanced on one crutch and waving a freshly minted learner’s license in the air while Clyde’s trying to hug him.  
“Funny story, actually,” Tweek’s dad is saying, while he’s unzipping his green puffer coat. “I’ll tell you all over dinner, once Helen gets off the phone with Jimmy’s mother.”  
“What’s that, honey,” Tweek’s mom calls out, having heard her name, just as what Craig assumes is her ringtone goes off. It’s some kind of song set to weird music, and he only hears a few bars of it before Mrs Tweek takes the call. “Hello, Sarah? A bank transfer, what in the…”  
“Tell her we can live without that sixteen dollars,” her husband shouts, while he’s pulling his winter boots off, before he practically bounds into the kitchen. “Tell her it’s a Tweak tradition!”  
“Sixteen d-dollars _eighty,”_ Jimmy sighs, with a lop-sided shrug. _“I’ve_ got sixteen d-d-dollars eighty _on_ me.”

“Do you remember Mike Sorensen, honey,” Dad asks, helping himself to some salad before passing the bowl on to Token. Everybody’s been jumbled up, seating-wise, which secretly annoys Tweek a little bit. He’s wound up sandwiched between his grandparents, with Craig on grandma’s other side and Jimmy on grandpa’s.  
Mom, who’s sitting across from Dad between Jimmy and Clyde, frowns as she thinks about it. “Mr Quarterback Superstar,” she asks, which makes Dad laugh.  
“That’s him,” Dad’s grinning, “But you wouldn’t recognize the guy _now,_ he’s really piled the pounds on. Anyway, Mike Sorensen is _general manager_ at the DMV.” Dad rolls his eyes to show them all what he thinks of general managers everywhere, though he seems to have forgotten that _he’s_ technically the general manager at Tweak Bros. “ I called ahead, to explain the situation, ask if I could act as a temporary guardian of a kid who isn’t mine…”  
“Present,” Jimmy deadpans, and stops cutting his sausages up so he can raise his hand.  
“… And Mike Sorensen remembered my name. We’re lucky he was feeling curious, or he’d never have done overtime to give Jimmy his test drive.”  
“That was nice of him,” Mom says, sounding surprised. “Good thing we never went to that reunion, huh,” she adds, with a little wink. Tweek snorts when he remembers his parents rolling their invites up like cigars, and burning them over the kitchen sink.  
“Mr Tweek c-called my p-p-parents,” Jimmy chimes in, “While I w-was driving over there? And they d-downloaded and signed the form –”  
“Then Mike printed that thing off and filed it like they’d been there in person, instead of me,” Dad concludes, pointing at his own chest with his fork, which has a piece of Quorn sausage on it. “Anyway, we had a good chat. He was asking about you, you know. I showed him a couple photos of you and Tweek…”  
“Huh,” Grandpa’s giving Jimmy a strange look. “Flight of the Conchords?”  
Jimmy’s grin is huge and wide. “Yeah, that was a M-Murray r-reference,” he replies, whatever the hell that means. But it makes Grandpa light right up, and start firing off questions – “Favorite song? Favorite episode?”  
“Leggy blonde!” Looks like Jimmy doesn’t even need to think about it. “And the one wh-where they’re helping that crazy lady l-l-look for her dog! W-what about you, Mr Tweak?”  
“Pft, David’s fine,” Grandpa says, waving his fork and dropping a piece of lettuce on the tablecloth. He doesn’t even notice Grandma tutting; but starts to rattle off a list of strange song titles – like “Sugarlumps” and “The Humans Are Dead”. Tweek hasn’t seen him this animated since his cousin TBT ran his bike all over the flowerbed out front – and that obviously hadn’t been a _happy_ kind of animated.  
“So,” Token’s got a sly grin on his face as he nudges Craig, “What’s with the matching sweaters?”  
“We’re just borrowing them” Craig mutters, refusing to meet Token’s eye. He’s blushing like crazy. “It was, uh, it was Tweek’s idea,” he lies unconvincingly, and he’s being so cute that Tweek wouldn’t _dream_ of getting mad at him.  
Tweek doesn’t exactly help matters by starting to laugh. “Token,” he says, marveling at how this doesn’t embarrass him _at all,_ “This is my mom’s old sweatshirt. I _know_ I’m a shrimp, okay?”  
That makes all the guys laugh – well, except for Craig, it just makes him blush harder – and Mom says, “Oh, it’s fine, Tweek! Just keep it! Richard, Craig can have yours, can’t he?”  
“Yeah, why not,” Dad reaches out to spear a Quorn sausage on his fork, pulling his hand back fast to avoid a smack from Grandma. “We only used those for yard-work, anyway.”  
Jimmy and Grandpa are deep in conversation by now, with Jimmy explaining about his stand-up and Grandpa nodding along like he doesn’t even notice Jimmy’s stutter. But at the mention of those sweaters, Jimmy’s head whips around. “Craig’s already got m-matching _Christmas_ sweaters with Tweek,” he says, looking right at Dad, “Don’t let him get away with being g-g-greedy.”  
“Hah, that’s right,” Dad says, like he’s only just remembered this, “Helen bought them from _the Internet,_ didn’t you, honey?”  
That even makes Grandma laugh, while Mom just raises an eyebrow in Dad’s general direction, like she’s not even _interested_ in his pathetic teasing efforts. You can totally see the corners of her mouth twitching, though. “Clyde,” Mom says, holding her last piece of vegetarian sausage out on the tip of her knife, “You want to try some Quorn, too?”  
Clyde, who’s been unusually quiet this whole time, just eating on auto-pilot, sort of jerks himself awake. “Huh? Oh sure,” he grabs the thing with his fingers and shoves it in his mouth. “Mm, this is – sorry…” Clyde brings his hand up in front of his mouth when he realises he’s talking and chewing at the same time, “This is actually good!”  
“Don’t tell me _you’re_ about to go vegetarian on me,” Craig drawls.  
“If I do,” Clyde fires back, “I’ll get me and Tweek matching sweatshirts with a pile of carrots on! And it’ll be _so_ damn cute!”  
Craig looks downright _offended_ at the very idea. “Tweek and _I,”_ he corrects Clyde, a little waspishly.  
“Nonono,” Jimmy wags his finger from side to side, “Tweek and I, _Nug –”_  
“Shut up, Jimmy!”


	4. Chickens can sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is it nearly Christmas already, HOW?! I'm sorry you had to wait a while for this chapter!

Maybe there _is_ a god after all, because after dinner, Mrs Ur-Tweak declares that they’ll be watching some old home movies next. And not in a tone you can really argue with, though Tweek does try his best. “But, it’s _embarrassing,”_ he pleads, pulling his hand through his hair – though he’s not actually pulling _on_ it, to Craig’s relief. He’s got one of Mrs Tweak’s many fabric bags dangling from his other arm – it’s green, and has “BONANY VEGETABLES LATELY” printed on the front, with a bunch of plants sort of winding around the words. It’s bulging, but Craig has no idea what’s in there. Food, probably; Tweek’s parents seem to have packed enough food to feed a football team.  
“You realize, honey,” he says, “That you just made it ten times more interesting for everyone?” Then he shoves his hands down his back pockets so he won’t do something like, say, putting his arm around Tweek while they walk back through the hall and into the living room. Oh, he _wants_ to, but the last thing he wants to do is _remind_ everybody that he and Tweek will be sleeping in the same bed tonight.  
“Oh Jesus,” Tweek wails, and it’s ridiculous how cute he is.  
“Ten times,” Token is saying, and Craig just knows it’s Jimmy getting his practice license that put their friend in such a good mood. “More like a hundred!”  
“I wanna see baby Tweek,” Clyde declares, slapping Tweek across the back with enough force to make him stumble. Before he knows it, Craig’s reached out and grabbed Tweek’s arm, steadying him.  
“Thanks,” Tweek says breathlessly, looking up at him. For just a second, they lock eyes, and Craig is suddenly so damn aware of every single beat his own heart makes inside his chest.  
“G-get a room, you two,” Jimmy says as he hobbles past them. “Oh wait, you already d-did!”  
Craig silently vows to himself that he’s going to get back at Jimmy _somehow,_ but before he can think of a comeback, he spots it. A framed newspaper clipping, hanging at eye height from one of the Tweak-tree’s many branches. “Local Boy Breaks Leg to Save Duck,” the headline reads, and Craig suddenly remembers that story Tweek’s parents told at Thanksgiving. “ “Who’s to say a human life is worth more than a duck’s life,” says young Richard Tweak, whose spontaneous heroics earned him crutches and a plaster cast after he jumped – ”  
“That right there,” Mrs Ur-Tweak taps the glass with her fingernail, “Is the reason I gave them all two-syllable names.”  
Craig, jarred out of reading the article in mid-sentence, can only muster a confused “Uh?”  
“It’s like dogs,” Tweek’s grandma goes on, “You’re only supposed to give them two-syllable names, like Lassie or Dingo. One-syllable names; and they’ll just confuse their own name with “Yes” and “No”. Three or more syllables; and they won’t even know you’re _talking_ to ‘em. So I picked two-syllable names for _all_ my boys, in case they grew up stupid.”  
Who names their dog Dingo, Craig thinks, turning to Tweek and hoping for any kind of cue about whether the old lady’s kidding or not. But, all his boyfriend has to offer him is a shrug and a wince.  
“Oh Rose,” Mrs Tweak says, like her mother in law just cracked the world’s funniest joke, before she slips her arm through Tweek’s and pulls him with her into the living room. Craig realizes she’s carrying a bottle of maple syrup, of all things. Why the hell…? At least the look on Tweek’s face is kind of priceless; he’s so cute when he gets all worked up.  
“Thank you, _Mother,_ for that _wonderful_ insight,” Mr Tweak drawls, and it’s impossible to tell if he finds this funny or mortally embarrassing. He’s got a carton of milk dangling from his left hand, and he’s clutching a bunch of mugs in his right. To Craig, who’s never seen Tweek’s family sit down and drink _milk,_ this is a little weird. “But you must’ve been at least a _little_ proud,” Mr Tweak goes on, smirking as he jerks his chin at the clipping, “Since you went and framed this?”  
“I _framed_ it to remind myself to raise Martin better,” the old lady instantly retorts.  
“Of _course_ you did.” Tweek’s dad raises a single eyebrow, like he doesn’t believe her at all. Like this is hilarious, and not even a little bit weird. “Come on, Craig!”  
“Okay,” Craig hears himself say, as he hurries in after Mr Tweak, and into a room that’s clearly been designed with a big family in mind. There are three sofas – a four-seater, a two-seater and a three-seater, with a recliner at the far end – arranged in a semi-circle around a bulky old TV. None of the sofas match each other, though the recliner seems to have come from the same set as the two-seater, since they’re an identical shade of yellowy white. No pictures have been hung in this room because all the walls are covered with bookcases; where the books aren’t just lined up but crammed in, sometimes stacked vertically or even sticking out. Now Mr Ur-Tweak is pulling the olive green curtains closed, but Craig just about catches a glimpse of the back yard – a snow-covered lawn, and flower-beds covered with what looks like the hacked-up branches of a Christmas tree.  
The TV rests on a banged-up wooden console table, and there’s an unholy mixture of stuff crammed into the top shelf. DVD’s mostly, with some books mixed in because the Ur-Tweaks probably ran out of shelf-space, and a few dusty VHS tapes. And on the shelf below the DVD-player and the X-Box, Craig spots a Sega Saturn, a Playstation One, and an honest-to-God Atari.  
“Oh, Thor and TBT found those in the attic,” Tweek says, sidling up to Craig and making it so the side of his arm sort of rests against the side of Craig’s arm. “They all still worked, and there was a whole box of games too. Uncle Simon got them all working – see the cables?” Craig spots them as soon as Tweek says it, a mess of cables and wires crammed underneath that console table like a nest of snakes. “And Grandpa was all, “Why the hell did I even buy you boys that X-thing?”  
Craig chuckles as he squats down to get a better look. Now he can see that the bottom shelf has been reserved for games; all jumbled up with little to no reverence for gaming era or system.  
“My brothers and I played that ping-pong game until I _dreamed_ about it,” Tweek’s dad is saying, and Craig looks up to see him talking to Token, pointing at the Atari. “Back in the day. That thing was old when _we_ got it. Never broke down, though.”  
“That’s a piece of gaming _history.”_ Token sounds all reverent as he kneels next to Craig, carefully running his finger along the fake wood panel at the front of the ancient machine. “I bet you could _sell_ this thing!”  
“So when do we get to see the OG Tweak Bros,” Clyde asks, leaning on one of the sofas.  
“We thought you could all head down there on Monday,” Mrs Ur-Tweak tells him, in a tone that makes it pretty clear that “we thought” means “you will”. “That’s when Dave and I’ll be working the early shift. We close on Sundays, and Emnet and Abraham always do Saturdays.”  
Meanwhile the Ur-Tweak has excavated a remote-control from the depths of the recliner, and turned the TV on. “Good thing, too,” Tweek’s granddad says, “That we can take some time off. Got too used to that, when you all still lived here.”  
“Well, I’m glad to hear our replacements are working out,” Tweek’s dad says, with a big grin on his face. That grin only widens when his mother reaches across the coffee table and tries – but fails – to smack him in the head. Suddenly, weirdly, it’s like Craig gets a glimpse of what the guy must’ve been like as a kid – all wily and smart-mouthed, and hungry for attention.  
Anyway, turns out there’s a crusty old Mr Coffee sitting on one of the side tables. It makes a terrible kind of sense that the thing’s already bubbling away; this _is_ a Tweak house after all. Craig watches Mrs Tweek fill up a metal jug from that carton of milk her husband brought inside, before she sticks what looks like an electric toothbrush inside it. “This is a milk foamer,” she tells Craig, smiling like she’s letting him in on a big secret. “Who wants maple syrup lattes?”  
“Think of it as gateway drug coffee,” her husband helpfully adds, “Or, ah, dessert?”  
“You don’t have to take one,” Tweek says, all serious, folding his arms like he’s making a stand for his personal principles. “Okay? Nobody has to drink coffee if they don’t want to. And there’s _real_ dessert too,” he slides that green bag off his arm, and pulls out two huge plastic tubs, the kind Craig’s mother stores the leftovers in. The contents are a mystery though, wrapped in grease paper. “Mom and I made Lamingtons,” Tweek goes on, putting them down on the coffee table with a soft little slam, “So _there.”_  
“Tweek,” his dad sounds like he’s trying to suppress the mother of all laughs. Craig knows how he must feel, because Tweek probably doesn ’t even realize how cute he’s being. “You’re making it sound like we’ve offered your friends crack cocaine!”  
“Dad! _You’re_ the one who said “gateway drug”!”  
“Oh, I’m _sure_ maple syrup lattes can’t be compared to anything worse than Adderall,” Tweek’s mom jokes, slapping Tweek’s arm.  
Jimmy lets out a peal of surprised laughter, before he drops into the far corner of the three-seater. “Mrs _Tweak,”_ he says, pretending to be all scandalized, while he grins and wags those bushy eyebrows.  
“Actually, I’d _love_ a maple syrup latte,” Token pipes up, raising his hand like a little kid in class. Of course he would, Token and his famous sweet tooth. Craig has to look away when sees Token elbowing Clyde, because it’s a well-known fact that Clyde even hates the _smell_ of coffee.  
“I’m, ah, too,” Clyde mumbles, clearly unhappy with the direction this is going in, “I mean, I’ll try it too. That maple syrup thing.”  
Craig just glances in Jimmy’s general direction, but of course their eyes meet, and of course they both _nearly_ lose their shit. Who got to Clyde – his dad? Telling him to try everything he’s offered, and not be rude? Or could it have been Token; keen for _all_ of them to make a good impression with the Ur-Tweaks?  
Now Tweek’s mom is gushing over how great it is that Clyde’s finally willing to give their family blend a chance, while Clyde is wincing like what he just agreed to was getting his teeth pulled out.  
They all pile into the couches – _into_ being the right word, because man do these things sag. Sitting on them is like being eaten alive, but still kind of comfy. Craig scores a seat next to Tweek, who discreetly leans into him, relaxing as much as he _can,_ with home movies on the menu. Tweek’s grandpa is explaining how Simon, their oldest son, transferred _all_ their old videos from VHS to digital, while Tweek shudders and wrings his hands. And man, that must’ve taken _days,_ because the CD-folder those DVD’s have been crammed into is _bulging_.  
“Any requests,” Mr Ur-Tweak asks, while Jimmy and Clyde chant “Little Tweek, little Tweek” and Tweek groans up at the ceiling. Since this is exactly what Craig wants to see too, he doesn’t feel too bad about joining in at the same time Token does.  
“Gah, you traitors,” Tweek growls, elbowing Craig – but not very hard.  
Then Mrs Tweak passes Craig a glazed brown mug with a pattern of little notches that runs along the bottom; perched on a matching saucer. All the guys have already got one; Clyde looks like he’s trying to hustle up the courage to sip his, while Token’s already sipping away. Jimmy, with his legs stretched out across Clyde’s lap, is grinning and holding his mug up like he’s toasting, and giving Tweek’s mom a thumb’s up.  
“The plate’s for the Lamingtons,” she tells Craig, smiling. “Now tell me what you think.”  
“It’s totally okay if you don’t like it,” Tweek shoots in, as he accepts an identical mug from his dad.  
Craig takes a sip first, and then he grabs a Lamington and takes a bite. They both taste amazing, not that Tweek even seems to believe him. Meanwhile, Tweek’s grandpa is flipping between the handwritten disks and sniggering to himself; back and forth like he can’t decide which one is funnier.  
“Saddam Hussein,” Tweek’s grandma says, and inexplicably that seems to help her husband make his mind up.  
“Ha,” he replies, and pushes a silvery disc into the machine, before he takes his seat in the recliner next to Jimmy.  
At first, Craig thinks the guy pointing the camera at himself and talking is Tweek’s dad, but he quickly realizes that the voice is different, the face is wider. Same crazy hair, though. “Tweek’s going to scare Mommy,” Tweek’s uncle mock-whispers, before the camera turns in an arc, taking in the front yard in summertime for just a few seconds. Flowerbeds and rosebushes exploding with color under a blue sky. There’s Tweek’s mom, lying in the hammock that’s been strung up along the front porch. Wearing a white dress, and deeply caught up in her book. Then the camera settles on Tweek. It’s hard to work out how old he is, since he’s wearing a mask – a lumpy green face with a red plastic bandana.  
“Ninja turtle,” Tweek whispers to him, picking up on his confusion. “Like, promise me you’ll never watch that show, okay? I mean, it’s _supposedly_ for kids, but there’s this character in it who’s literally just a brain on a footstool, I had night – ”  
The guys start shushing him, so Tweek falls silent, just growling and twitching a little bit. Craig watches Little Tweek sneak up to the hammock, and it’s seriously adorable, how he runs from shadow to shadow like a tiny, bushy-haired ninja. “HI-YAH,” he finally yells, leaping into the hammock.  
Mrs Tweak squawks and drops her book to the patio, where it snaps neatly closed. She’s over the shock pretty quickly, grabbing Tweek by his skinny little torso. “Ooh, I’m going to tickle you for that,” she says, pretending to be mad, while Tweek giggles and squirms in her grip.  
Then suddenly, a man in a rubber mask jumps in to the frame – he must’ve come out through the front door – shouting something unintelligible. He lands right behind them; and you can just make out that the mask has a black moustache; and black hair at the back. Mother and son both scream for real this time, turning around so suddenly that they upset the hammock. Craig just sees it, that split second where Mrs Tweak wraps her arm around Tweek’s head right before they fall out, still screaming, and roll onto the lawn.  
“Oh shit,” Tweek’s uncle says, and then the screen goes black.  
For a second or two, nobody talks at all, and Craig is doing his best to not snigger _too_ loudly. But then Jimmy says, “Mr Tweak? W-was that _you?”_  
“Of _course_ it was him!” Mrs Tweak replies for her husband, who starts to laugh. “Wearing that smelly old Saddam Hussein mask!”  
“Hey, I _said_ I was sorry! Ow,” Mr Tweak adds, because this time he wasn’t fast enough to dodge a smack from his mother. “And it was all Simon’s idea! Originally,” he adds, very quietly, and Craig swallows another snort.  
“Helen couldn’t bend her elbow for a week,” Mrs Ur-Tweak snaps, while her son scratches the back of his neck and looks away. “At least Tweek didn’t get hurt.”  
“But anyway,” Tweek says, a little desperately, “That’s all done with, so can we _please_ watch something where I _don’t_ look like an idiot?”  
“But where’s the fun in that,” Clyde asks, from Tweek’s other side, so innocently that it even takes _Craig_ a second to figure out that he’s kidding. And Craig’s pretty much known Clyde his whole _life._  
“Gah, I’ll bite your nose off, and feed it to Stan Marsh’s dog,” Tweek growls, digging his elbow into Clyde’s side and giving as good as he gets. “Then you can see how much fun it is, ngh, walking around with a big _hole_ where your nose used to be!”  
His threat is met with a chorus of “Ooh’s” and an insincere shout of “Sca-ry!” from Jimmy; even Tweek’s grandpa chuckles quietly as he pulls a fresh DVD from the folder.  
“Then this’ll be a treat for you, Tweek,” the Ur-Tweak promises as he swaps the discs out, “You’re not in it at all.”

The camera wobbles for a bit, then steadies and focuses on a blue and burgundy check pattern. It pulls even further back, and Tweek can see that this was the collar of Dad’s shirt, worn under a bulky-looking grey sweater. Dad’s also got a beard in this video; and Dad with a beard never fails to look weird as hell. Now he’s reaching out and steadying the camera it with one hand; he’s holding a guitar covered with stickers in the other.  
“Helen and I,” Dad says, grinning into the camera – Jesus, how young _was_ he when this was shot? – “Discovered that the chickens can sing. _And_ they like Fleetwood Mac.” Then he turns around, and you can see more of his surroundings now that he’s walking away from the camera. It looks like Dad’s in a shed – a chicken coop? And there’s Mom, wearing a knitted bobble-hat and that big old tie-dye sweatshirt she used to have, the one she’d made herself. Mom’s sitting on the dirt floor with a chicken in her lap, stroking it. Another couple of chickens are pressed up against her side, like they want a shot at her lap, too. There are a few more of them milling around on the floor, clucking absentmindedly to themselves. But as soon as Dad perches on an upturned bucket and starts strumming, the chickens all perk up.  
“I know there’s nothing to say,” Mom sings, and her voice is so sweet and pure, “Someone has taken my place.” Her hand moves up and down as she pets the chicken’s neck with two fingers, while she bops her head in time with the music. A few of the chickens are nodding along, too. Tweek’s heard this song a hundred times; it’s on the Golden Oldies playlists at Tweak Bros after all. He’s always thought of it as a breakup song, but his parents’ version is all bouncy and happy. “When times go bad, when times go rough,” here Mom looks up at Dad, who’s still strumming without singing, and her smile widens, “Won’t you lay me down in the tall grass, and let me do my stuff?”  
The chorus is the bit where Dad joins in, and Tweek suddenly gets why it had to be _this_ song – because one chicken immediately joins in; “Bwak-ba-bwak-bwak,” and then another, until _all_ of the chickens are clucking along, more or less in time. It’s funny, when it’s just Mom singing the next verse, most of them quiet back down again, though by now she’s got _three_ of them in her lap and one on her left shoulder, rubbing its head against the side of her face. Meanwhile, a rooster has gone and perched on Dad’s knee, dangerously close to the guitar, like it just can’t get enough of the music. Tweek can barely blink for fear of missing anything, from this weird little time capsule of a video.  
His parents get through all four verses, with more and more chickens deciding that joining in on the chorus just isn’t enough. So by the time Mom and Dad are singing the outro together, they’re forced to sing kind of loudly, to can drown the chickens out. Tweek’s already halfway to laughing, when the duck flies into the frame.  
You can instantly tell it’s a duck, even though the colors are kind of unusual. They remind Tweek of tortoiseshell cats since the duck’s mostly white and brown, with a black face and tail-feathers. The chickens instantly scatter in a panic, and the rooster kicks off from Dad’s leg with enough force that it almost makes him fall off that bucket. For a second, Dad’s flailing arm covers the screen as he does his best not to drop the guitar in the dirt. You can hear him swearing too, which makes Grandma tut.  
Then Dad’s saying, “I’ll be damned,” and as he moves out of the way… Oh Jesus! The duck’s not just sitting on Mom’s lap now; it’s rubbing its head in circles over her chest and stomach. “Helen, are you okay?”  
“I don’t think it’s trying to bite me,” Mom’s saying, remarkably calm under the circumstances. “I think maybe it’s… trying to say hello?”  
“Okay, well…” Dad shrugs and turns back to the camera, “Now that this guy’s gate-crashed our concert, I guess I’d better go find him some corn or something. But yeah, that was Second Hand News by Helen Tweak and the Chicken Choir!” He flashes a quick grin at the screen, before he reaches over it, and then everything goes black.  
“The chickens were like our pets, you know?” Mom’s gone and snuggled up under Dad’s arm while they watched the clip, and now she’s all rosy-cheeked with nostalgia. “We used to do that all the time, sit out in the chicken coop and sing with them. Fleetwood Mac, Queen, Bloodhound Gang… That was back in Nepal,” she goes on, “Right before we found out I was pregnant with you, Tweek!”  
“I’d forgotten all about that,” Dad says, thoughtfully rubbing his chin against the top of Mom’s head.  
“You’d almost think that duck could tell,” Token says, discreetly swapping his own empty mug for Clyde’s. Clyde barely seems to have touched it. “That you were expecting, I mean?” He then takes a big sip; the maple syrup latte seems to be a big hit with Token.  
“Of _course_ it could tell,” Tweek hears himself say – almost yell – before he clamps his mouth shut. Oh God. Oh shit. Even before he was born, the ducks…  
“Animals are a lot smarter than we give them credit for,” Craig says, agreeing with him and making Tweek’s outburst sound almost like part of a normal conversation. “I remember my grandparents, on my mom’s side? They had this crazy Airdale terrier, used to jump on everybody. But when Mom was pregnant with Tricia, he was so careful around her.”  
“Ugh, I remember that dog,” Clyde says with a shudder, “First time I ever saw him, I was like, hello doggie, and he just ran up and tried to bite me!”  
Tweek literally feels dizzy with relief, while Clyde is being a better friend than he even knows he is and distracting everybody. And best of all, Clyde’s crazy dog story is the perfect springboard for grandpa to bring up the German Shepherd from Hell that used to live down the road. That was all long before Tweek was born, but he’s heard the stories so often that he almost feels like he was right there. That time it almost bit his uncle Martin through the fence, and Dad had kicked the boards right next to the Alsatian’s head to scare it off. Or the time it actually got out and went for Grandma, who’d beat the damn thing across the nose with her umbrella until it retreated, whining, and hid behind the neighbour’s Volvo. The guys are all laughing and not thinking about ducks at all, and maybe, just maybe, Tweek can keep this all up and the trip _won’t_ go to hell. Maybe.


	5. Action figure side-eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! (It's technically still Christmas, right?)
> 
> So doing my research for this fic has led me to investigate the world of custom action figures, and let me just take a minute to say that I am HELLA impressed at what people can do. If IKEA is like Lego for adults, this stuff is like Lego for _artisans_. The figure that originally inspired part of this chapter is one I can sadly no longer find, but I borrowed a lot of inspiration from this guy:  
> https://www.figurerealm.com/customfigure?action=view&id=103075  
> Plus it seems like canibalizing Polaris' energy rings is quite the thing in the custom figure scene! And if that last sentence made no sense to you, congratulations, you're a functioning human and I'm a ridiculous nerd. Thank your lucky stars for that small mercy and enjoy this next chapter.

After a few more home videos and a _lot_ of Lammingtons, Token cautiously asks if he can try the Atari out. He’s kind of hopped up now, after having _three_ of those maple syrup lattes in quick succession. First he drank his own in like two gulps, in between topping it up from Clyde’s mug, and when Mrs Tweak asked if he wanted another one, Token just couldn’t say no. And Clyde, who was sneakily drinking just milk out of his mug after Token emptied it – Craig could totally tell, and he’s pretty sure Mr Tweak could, too – is probably so grateful for the help that he immediately joins the Atari choir. So then Tweak’s grandpa heaves himself out of the recliner and tells Jimmy to “Come along, if you want to see something _really_ funny”, which of course is impossible for Jimmy to resist. After those two have hobbled off, and Tweek’s dad has puzzled out which cable goes where and plugged the Atari in, Tweek’s grandma clears her throat.  
“Tweek and Helen can tidy up,” she says, in a tone that’s not to be argued with, “And Craig can help me carry the bedding downstairs. Anyone who _drove_ gets to relax,” she adds, waving at Token and Clyde when they immediately start to get up off the floor.  
“My _God,”_ Tweek’s dad clutches at his heart and pretends to be all shocked, “Does that mean _I_ get to relax, too?”  
“There _is_ no god,” his mother snaps, before she flicks her finger into the side of his head. “You’re stacking the dishwasher, Richard. Up you get.”  
“Sure thing, Mom!” Mr Tweak bounds to his feet, and he looks like he’s doing his best not to laugh. Damn, Craig thinks, But their family is weird. Like, he was expecting a _little_ weirdness, but Tweek’s grandparents almost make his _parents_ look normal, and technically that should be impossible.  
“Craig,” Mrs Ur-Tweak says sharply, “Stop woolgathering and come help an old lady out.” She’s already on her way out the living room door.  
“Uh, yeah,” he blinks and shakes his head, “Sorry, Mrs Tweak!”  
Even though he’s not really supposed to run outside of the gym yet, Craig finds himself running up the stairs after Tweek’s grandma. That little old lady is _fast._ It feels so good though, running without having to think about it, without worrying about his right knee buckling. So good to be back to normal – well, almost. His body’s mostly recovered, but then there’s his little brain problem. He’ll need to keep on his toes, and not slip up in front of Mrs Ur-Tweak.  
Turns out the bedding’s all kept up on the second floor, in a closet next door to the master bedroom. Peeking inside there, Craig gets why they’d pick this room for themselves – there’s a huge skylight built into the ceiling, positioned right above the bed. You can probably lie there and count the stars at night. There’s a second window, facing the back yard, where an easel has been set up – the room takes up nearly half of the second floor, so there’s definitely space for it – with a half-finished painting of a… tree? Craig squints; he’s pretty sure that’s a tree, only the roots have been included as well, and sort of pulled upwards to merge with the branches.  
“The tree of life,” Mrs Ur-Tweak says, making Craig jump. “Bunch of new-age nonsense if you ask me. He insists on painting in here since the light’s so good,” she goes on, walking past him with her armful of quilted comforters. “Doesn’t care about stinking up the room.”  
“Well that’s pretty douchey of him.” Craig follows her inside. He’s not sure if that was the right thing to say, but then Tweek’s grandma actually laughs.  
“You were the one,” she says then, dumping the quilts on the bed before turning to look at him. Craig feels a quick stab of fear when he sees that the old lady’s eyes have gone really shiny. “The one who talked him down from the roof.”  
“Tweek,” he asks, which is pretty damn stupid, all things considered. Craig’s not exactly made a career out of talking people out of jumping from high places. “I mean, uh, yeah, but…”  
“But nothing.” Without any sort of warning, Tweek’s grandma throws her skinny arms around him and hugs Craig so hard it almost hurts. “Thank you, Craig.”  
“Nothing to thank me for,” Craig mutters, clumsily returning the hug. His cheeks are burning. Down there on the closest dressing table, he spots a framed photo on the closest dresser. In the picture, Tweek’s mom is mega-pregnant and fast asleep, curled up like a yin-yang symbol with her mother-in-law. Her thick, glossy hair spread across the comforter like a fan, her face plump and serene. In contrast with the younger woman, Tweek’s grandma is painfully thin, with ragged wisps of hair clinging to her head and a nightgown that literally hangs off her, exposing one bony shoulder. It’s so sad and so lovely all at once, and somehow, Craig just knows it was Tweek’s dad who took this picture.  
“Oh,” Tweek’s grandma twists in his arms, and obviously realizes what Craig’s looking at. “That was when I had cancer.” She makes cancer sound like an inconvenience. Like in her mind; she compares it to their coffee store getting audited or something. “I wasn’t about to clock out before I’d seen my first grandkid.”  
Maybe it’s because he’s been friends with Token for so long, that Craig feels like he just _gets_ this lady all of a sudden. Like he gets what she’s _really_ told him; that waiting for Tweek to be born was what helped her stay alive. Only she’s too proud to actually _say_ that to some kid she just met.  
“So Tweek saved your life, too,” Craig says cautiously.  
Tweek’s grandma pulls back and smiles. “Looks like I don’t need to tell you to be good to him.”

Tweek waits until the guys have all gone to bed, until he’s all alone with Craig up in his parents’ old room, before he finally pulls his secret present out. They’re both dressed for sleeping; Craig in his old man blue and white checked PJ’s and Tweek in clean boxers and his baseball shirt with the “Om” symbol on it. “At least you’re not wearing socks,” Tweek teases, leaning over the edge of the bed to grab his backpack.  
Craig, who’s been messing around on Instagram, looks up and grunts. “At least I can _feel_ the cold,” he drawls, raising a single black eyebrow. “Makes me feel alive.”  
Tweek snorts as he pulls his backpack up from the floor and swings it onto the bed. It weights almost nothing; literally the only thing _in_ here, now that he’s unpacked, is Craig’s gift. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he mumbles, suddenly unable to meet Craig’s eyes, because what if Craig hates it? What if he _pretends_ he thinks it’s great, but they both _know,_ or –  
“I hope it’s not your birthday suit,” Craig says, interrupting his thoughts. “I mean, I’d feel _weird_ about doing it _here,_ when your mom and dad…”  
“Gah! _Jesus,_ no,” Tweek yelps, absolutely horrified, “It’s this, here, take it!” He thrusts the tissue-wrapped bundle at Craig’s face, holding it right under his nose. The tissue’s green, which makes it look a little bit like Tweek went and tied a bow on a courgette.  
Craig’s eyes cross as he tries to look right at it. “Babe,” Craig says, as his fingers close over Tweek’s, “What’s the – ”  
“Open it!”  
“Occasion?” Craig may be just raising one eyebrow, and not smirking at all, but still, Tweek gets the very distinctive feeling that deep down, his boyfriend is laughing at him.  
“Jesus Christ, Craig,” Tweek groans, pulling his hand back from the parcel, “Just open it!”  
Instead of doing what he’s told, Craig turns around, quick as a cat, and presses his lips against Tweek’s. “Let me say thanks first,” he says, and since he’s only pulled his face back a little bit, Tweek can feel his hot breath on his cheek, smell the minty tang of Craig’s toothpaste.  
“Ngh, you’re welcome, asshole,” he growls, though he can’t help but smile. “Now open it!”  
“Okay.” Craig slips the ribbon off before he goes to work on the tissue paper – he’s going to hate it, this was a terrible idea – and it takes forever because maybe Tweek used a _lot_ of green tissue. He just hadn’t wanted any of the pointy bits to poke through when he was wrapping that thing, but now, _on reflection,_ it does look kind of insane. By the time Craig’s done, the bed’s covered in little bits of tissue. What’s worse, Craig is just staring at the action figure in his hand, not talking at all, and that’s the kind of silence Tweek can’t _help_ but try and fill.  
“It’s your own fault, you know,” he begins, picking up verbal speed as his explanation snowballs into insanity, “For giving me action figures for Christmas when I didn’t get you anything, and gah! I got this Star-Lord figure for cheap on Ebay? That’s the guy from Guardians of the Galaxy, okay? And I painted the body to fit Rictor’s costume, I thought since he already had the trench coat, you know? The head’s from a Spiderman figure, or like, more of a grown-up Peter Parker figure I guess, and I cut up a Black Widow bracelet to wrap around his neck and make the top of Rictor’s sweater, and then I painted the little X on there, see?!” With a shaking hand, Tweek points to the figure’s shoulder, and the tiny red X surrounded by a silver circle. “And those things around his hands, uh, they’re supposed to be like, him using his earthquake powers after he gets them back, right? They’re actually from this Polaris figure I bought, because I thought Havok looked so lonely on his own, just sitting on his own shelf and being jealous of Apollo and Midnighter because _they_ had each other, right? But then I didn’t _like_ the circle thingies on Polaris, so I painted ‘em gold for Rictor since they were this _neon_ green…” Tweek can finally feel himself losing momentum, and as his voice trails off, he looks up at Craig, chewing his bottom lip.  
“You _made_ this,” Craig says. It’s probably a question, so Tweek nods. “You _made_ me my own custom Rictor figure?”  
Tweek nods again. “I uh,” he mutters, “Yeah? I mean, I guess I thought Shatterstar would be lonely,” he jokes, because that look on Craig’s face is making him feel a little more hopeful. “You know, looking at Nineties Rictor and Shatterstar, and giving them some action figure side-eye.”  
“This is…” Craig carefully puts Tweek’s Frankenstein creation down on Mom’s bedside table – he’s on Mom’s side, Tweek’s on Dad’s – before he slides one arm around Tweek’s waist and pulls him close. “It’s perfect,” he whispers, before he closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Tweek’s messy bangs. “Thank you.”  
Tweek’s heartbeat just slows right down, and he feels himself start to smile. “It was kind of fun,” he says, “Figuring out how to do it, what I’d need… It wasn’t that different from building model planes, you know? And Kevin told me about this comic shop in Denver that stocks the nerd paints…”  
“You’re something else.” Craig sits back, shaking his head in wonder. Then he picks up the Rictor figure again, and his smile turns sly. “So honey, can I like, _commission_ you to make me the rest of X-Factor? I pay in hugs.”  
“Are you _insane,”_ Tweek yells, forgetting how convinced he was, not one minute ago, that Craig would think his custom Rictor was garbage, “The team’s huge! And if you want the _whole_ team, I’d have to do Havok and Polaris too, and then I’d want to _keep_ them, and then I’d _feel_ bad – ”  
Craig stops his rant with a kiss. “Honey?”  
Tweek sighs, though he’s smiling again. “I know, I know. “Don’t ever change,” right?”  
“That’s right,” Craig tells him, as he puts Rictor back down on the bedside table, a bit like Indiana Jones swapping out that rock for the tribal idol. Then he slides down under the duvet, tugging at the sleeve of Tweek’s baseball-shirt until he sights and crawls under there too.  
_“Everybody’s_ always saying that,” he mutters, but he’s not upset about it, not really. And Craig, chuckling warmly into the side of his neck, can totally tell. 

A woman’s scream tears through the house, and both boys jolt awake. Tweek, who’d fallen asleep on his chest, cracks the top of his head against Craig’s chin with enough force that for a second, they both yowl with pain.  
“Ow,” Craig mutters, before he wraps his arm across Tweek’s chest and blows into his boyfriend’s hair. No alarm clock. What time is it, even? “You okay.”  
“Ngh, yeah, sorry,” Tweek grunts, half awake, and plants a quick, gentle kiss on the tip of Craig’s nose. “I’d better,” he goes on, sounding marginally more alert, as he scrambles out of the bed, “I mean. That was my mom.”  
“Here,” Craig grabs the “Hemmingway” sweatshirt from his own pile of clothes and tosses it into Tweek’s arms, “Put this on.” Because while Craig sleeps in regular PJ’s now that it’s the dead of winter, Tweek had insisted he was too warm for more than a T-shirt and boxers when they went to bed. Little weirdo, Craig thinks fondly.  
Tweek grunts a quick thanks before he stumbles out on the landing. Craig gets up and follows him. The guys are all coming out of the smaller rooms, too, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Even Clyde, who sleeps like the dead when he doesn’t sleepwalk, is out there, scratching his bushy brown hair.  
“I’m just gonna, you know,” Tweek tells them, while he’s pulling the sweater over his head. Of course he looks adorable; that thing is at least two sizes too big for him and the sleeves flap down way past his hands. Then he hurries down the stairs, with impressive coordination for a guy who can barely keep his eyes open. Craig can hear the soft slapping of Tweek’s bare feet, followed by the hum of quiet voices from the living room.  
Tweek’s grandparents have also been roused, because why the hell wouldn’t they wake up from a scream like that. Tweek’s grandma looks so frail all of a sudden, in her washed-out purple nightie and flannel dressing-gown. And Tweek’s grandpa wears these floppy thin slippers that keep curling under his feet when he walks; Craig can’t decide if it’s cute or tragic. They get down to the first floor just as Tweek’s dad bounds up the stairs, saying, “Don’t worry,” with so much fake cheer in his voice that even _Craig_ picks up on it. “That was just a Saddam-related flashback.” Mr Tweak’s obviously lying, or kidding, and what he’s really saying is that his wife needs to be left alone. From downstairs, you can just make out the horrible sound of someone trying to sob quietly.  
“You go back to bed, Dave,” the old lady tells her husband, who grunts something unintelligible before he starts heading back up to the second floor. “Same goes for the rest of you boys,” she adds, eyeballing Craig for a few long seconds, before she pushes past her son and heads downstairs.  
Tweek’s dad just shrugs, like he’s used to his mother not taking anything he says seriously. “Try to get some sleep,” he says, flashing them an unconvincing smile. “This’ll all be fine.”  
As soon as Mr Tweak’s turned away, Craig jerks his head back at the room he and Tweek are borrowing. The guys, who have been waiting for that invitation, all shuffle inside without talking.  
Nobody says anything until all four of them have got on the Queen-size bed and made themselves comfortable. Jimmy’s sprawled on his stomach across the foot end, his feet touching the floor and his crutches discarded on the rug. Clyde’s pressed up against Craig’s side like a nervous dog during a thunderstorm, while Token sits cross-legged in the middle, with Tweek’s duvet covering his legs.  
“I wonder what she was dreaming about,” Token mutters, sleepily rubbing his bare arms.  
“Dude,” Clyde gives him a look that’s almost reproachful, “I’m not sure I _want_ to know.”  
“Yeah,” Token agrees, and looks down, picking at one of the duvet covers. The pattern on those things was so loud – some geometric Escher bullshit – that Craig wound up flipping them over, so now the back color is the only thing that’s showing; a soothing if washed-out shade of black.  
Jimmy yawns, before he reaches out and grabs Token’s foot – or at least it _looks_ like Token’s foot; one of the bits of Token under the duvet, anyway. Jimmy gives Token’s foot a quick shake and says, “Don’t worry about helping out. We’re already helping, just by b-being here.”  
“Huh,” Craig says, stretching his left leg and nudging Jimmy in the ribs with his toes, “Somebody slept well.” Well enough to barely stutter at all, right after he’s had such a slasher-movie style wakeup-call, too.  
Jimmy grins back at him. “I’m in holiday m-mode,” he replies, shrugging. Then he blows the whole casually chill act by looking over his shoulder at the door, which Clyde, the last one inside, seems to have left open on purpose.  
“Not that I know what it’s like,” Clyde suddenly says, “I mean, what it _must’ve been_ like. But I do know what it’s like to grow up scared of your own mom.”  
Craig, who’d never admit that he was _also_ pretty scared of Clyde’s mom growing up, slips his arm around Clyde’s shoulder so he can muss his hair. Not like he’s making Clyde’s ridiculous bedhead look any worse, is it.  
“Yeah,” Token says again, before he flips over on his side and rests his head on Clyde’s outstretched right leg. Like he’s really saying, _you’re not alone,_ just like Craig is when you get down to it.  
Suddenly, Jimmy throws his hand out, grabbing Clyde’s toes and hissing “I’ve got a _f-foot,”_ in the world’s silliest stage whisper, his face all bug-eyed and screwed up. Craig snorts before he can help it, and in a second Clyde and Token have joined him, giggling quietly.  
“Maybe she’s planning on burning all the old lady’s furniture and things,” Token ventures, “Like that time at Clyde’s house when we burned all the towels?”  
“The day you _blocked me_ on Instagram,” Clyde whisper-yells at Jimmy; jerking his foot out of Jimmy’s grip and pretending to kick him.  
Jimmy is unrepentant, though. “If you’d seen my S-story, it w-w-would’ve ruined the surprise.”  
Craig opens his mouth to remind Clyde that Jimmy _did_ show him the video after the surprise had been sprung, but that’s when Tweek slips inside the room. “Oh hey,” he says, with a tired little smile, “So this is an orgy now.”  
That gets him a few quiet laughs; and a high-five from Jimmy when he joins them on the bed. On spite of everything, Craig feels this sudden zap of happiness that Tweek is comfortable enough with the guys to joke around like this, an electric shock right to the heart.  
“So how’s your mom,” Clyde asks, shifting over to the other side to make space for Tweek.  
“She had this nightmare about…” Tweek lies down flat between Clyde and Craig, his head wedged between the two pillows. He sighs. “Okay, so when I was like, eight years old? My other grandma tried to kidnap me.”  
“Jesus, honey,” Craig hears himself say, before he shuffles down to lie right next to Tweek. “What happened?”  
Tweek closes his eyes for a second, and the guys all hold their breath. “She just drove up to my elementary school,” he says, “And tried to make me get inside her car. But this was _after_ she’d called. We were living _here,_ ” he goes on, annoyed at the memory, “So grandpa had to sort out a new number afterwards and everything, for the landline. Anyway, that’s…” Tweek shakes his head, fluffy blonde hair brushing against the side of Craig’s face, “That’s not really important. I was the one who took the call, and I’d never _met_ her before.” Craig, who’s now rubbing little circles on Tweek’s arm, can hear the guilt creeping into his voice. “I had no idea who she was, just some lady asking to speak to my mom. But then I passed the phone to Mom,” Tweek swallows, “And she _fainted._ Bam, like a plank, you know?”  
“God damn it,” Token says, pronouncing each word precisely and angrily.  
“How’d she t-t-track your m-mom down, anyway,” Jimmy asks, and Craig pushes himself up on his elbow to give him a firm look, because seriously. There’s a time to play journalist, and then there’s a time to just shut up and listen.  
“Facebook,” Tweek replies, shoving _so_ much disgust into that one word, “My uncle Buster talked her into making a profile? Just to track down some of the people she’d been in foster homes with.”  
Clyde covers his face with one big hand. “Damn,” he says, from between his fingers. “The worst thing is; that was kind of a good idea?”  
“Too good,” Tweek says, shuddering a little. “Apparently what she’d said was, “I didn’t know you’d had a little boy”. Mom freaked out so bad when she woke up; crying and saying we’d have to move, and “She’s going to come for Tweek next,” Dad spent like a couple _hours_ calming her down. I’d never been so scared before,” he adds, very quietly. Craig decides this would be a good time to give Tweek a careful kiss on the cheek; just to remind him that he’s not alone. To his relief, that nets him a quick smile, before Tweek clears his throat. “I mean, she was right. It was literally the next day when my _other_ grandma pulled up outside the bus stop and rolled her window down.”  
“So then what happened,” Clyde asks – the exact same words and tone he’d used on Craig, that time they watched The Conjuring and Clyde had been too scared to actually watch most of it.  
“That was the first time I told a grownup to go to hell,” Tweek grins up at Clyde, “Then I ran back inside and told my homeroom teacher, who called the cops.”  
“Aw, nice!” Clyde returns that grin with interest.  
“There wasn’t a lot they could _do,_ though. She hadn’t actually broken any _laws,_ so the best they could do was issue a restraining order. But then Grandma – my _real_ grandma,” he adds, with so much force that Craig has to smile, “Sat Mom and Dad down, and told ‘em they’d been getting too comfortable here anyway. That it was time for them to go start their _own_ coffee shop, now that she wasn’t sick anymore. Turns out my dad had been thinking the same thing for a while, so…” Tweek shrugs, “That’s how we wound up moving to South Park. _Literally_ because that was the first vacant restaurant my dad found,” he adds, with a little laugh. _“Our_ Tweak Bros used to be a TexMex, did you know that?”  
Craig shakes his head, both because he’d had no idea, _and_ because that’s the coincidence that would change _his_ life _and_ Tweek’s. Then everybody’s quiet for a minute.  
“Fate is a… m-messed-up thing,” Jimmy finally says, shaking his head.  
“And also, it’s nearly four in the morning,” Token shoots in, holding up Tweek’s phone where the numbers “03:48” are glowing on the screen. “So I guess we’d better…?”  
That’s Clyde’s cue to yawn enormously, before the guys all slip back out into the hallway.  
“I should’ve known,” Tweek mutters, after Craig’s turned the lights off and pulled him close. “Mom was acting _way_ too happy. _And_ she was wearing that lipstick,” he adds. “That purple red? Mom even _says_ she puts that color on when she needs to kick the day in the ass.”  
Craig lets out a little puff of laughter. “Dude,” he whispers, “Your mom said “ass”.”  
Next to him, Tweek sniggers like a little kid as he burrows nose first into the curve of Craig’s neck. “Thanks,” his lips brush Craig’s earlobe, “I needed that.”  
In spite of everything, Craig feels the sweetest sense of contentment. “Anytime, honey,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “Anytime.”


	6. You've still got me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hi there, I'm glad you guys still remember to check in on this story from time to time!
> 
> Now, when Jimmy and Token mention Tweek's grandpa putting a movie on? They're talking about Up in Smoke, which is probably the OG stoner movie, starring Cheech and Chong - who have both guest-starred on South Park. You can watch the scene they're referencing here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuYeQi4wB_k  
> ...though if you want to cut right to the chase, you might want to fast-forward to about one minute and ten. The whole thing's funny though, I promise. (That, or there's something wrong with me.)
> 
> When Craig says that the apartment looks "Derelicte", he's referencing Zoolander, Ben Stiller's finest moment (Blue Steel!) and Laura Tucker's favorite movie. As for what Derelicte is, here's a little explanation from it's creator:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mVscQYjuq_s

It’s barely light out when Tweek shuffles downstairs, even though he and Craig slept in until almost nine. But it’s overcast, grey skies and the grim promise of ice-cold rain in the afternoon. Craig is in the shower now, so Tweek’s on his own. Huh, sounds like everybody else is in the kitchen already. He hurries through the living room to join them, all snug and warm in the Nasa hoodie he’s “borrowed” from Craig… and then he spots the lamp. Oh Shakyamuni and shit on toast; Tweek can’t believe he forgot about this thing; but then nobody had lit it up last night… It’s on now though, spreading its’ forty Watt glow in a little ring on the corner table – it’s not even an _efficient_ source of light! But it _is_ the very first present Mom bought for his grandparents; paid for with her first ever pay check from Tweak Bros – an obnoxiously tall lamp shaped like a mallard duck standing on a tuft of yellow reeds, wings spread out like he’s supposed to launch himself into the air. In “honour” of Launchpad McQuack, apparently, since Mom’s always credited Dad’s broken foot – and by extension, the duck he broke it saving – as the reason they got together. The duck’s beak is open in what could be mistaken for a cheesy smile, even though, since the light is coming from underneath him, it looks like his butt _and_ his private duck parts have caught on fire.  
That’s when his phone dings with an Insta notification, but Tweek just about manages to choke down his scream. It’s from Nicole, who acted as a sort of consultant-slash-cheerleader while he was making Craig’s Rictor figure. Their dm thread is now full of the pictures Tweek sent her while he worked on that thing. _Did he like it,_ Nicole has written, followed by five question marks.  
In spite of the duck lamp, Tweek has to smile. _He loved it,_ he replies, and follows his up with five thumbs-ups before he hits Send. Wait, shit, he should’ve thanked her! Tweek quickly types out _Thx for your input,_ before he pauses. Should he really…? His smile widens, and he adds five kissy-faces; then sends the message before he can convince himself she’ll get mad. After all, he knows Nicole better than that.  
He’d rather freeze than have the guys notice this thing on their way back upstairs, so Tweek quickly unzips the hoodie and drapes it over the lamp, which he also switches off. There. Craig’s got that Hemmingway sweatshirt now; he probably won’t even miss his hoodie. Good thing Tweek’s on his toes; or this duck stuff could really get out of hand.  
The rest of the guys are crammed around the table along with Grandma and Grandpa. Dad, still wearing the Tweak Bros T-shirt and tartan pyjama bottoms he slept in, is standing barefoot by the cooker with his back to the living room. He’s making what looks like a second batch of scrambled eggs – the guys have all got some on their plates already. And Mom’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a plate in her hand, too nervous to sit down. So she spots him first, and immediately opens the cupboard to grab him a big mug.  
“Good morning, sleepy-head!” Mom pours him some coffee from the pot; smiling as she presses it into his hands. At least she doesn’t kiss him on the forehead or anything embarrassing like that, but she’s so… _intensely_ cheerful that Tweek can only hope his friends aren’t too weirded out. Looking at Mom, you’d never think she screamed herself hoarse last night. You’d never think she’d clung to Tweek, gasping “She got you, she got you,” in between sobs, because that’s how vivid her nightmare had been. Now she’s wearing those jeans Token’s mom got her – the only pair she owns – and a crisp mint green and white check shirt; she looks like one of those irritatingly wholesome models from the L.L. Bean catalog. Her key necklace, nestled between folds of fabric, catches a brief flicker of light from the window as a car drives past.  
Wouldn’t it be great, Tweek thinks; if you could just fast-forward past the super awkward moments in life? Like playing a cassette tape in Clyde’s late Rabbit; just skipping past the song you didn’t like. A _smidgeon_ of totally harmless time travel. If only he could snap his fingers like Thanos and zip past this entire day and rejoin everybody after they’ve cleared his _other_ grandma’s apartment out.  
“Are you sure that’s enough for you,” Mom’s asking Clyde now, reaching over and mussing his brown hair, even though he’s got nearly _half_ a frying pan of scrambled eggs onto his plate.  
“Mm, ‘s fantastic,” Clyde grunts with his mouth full, looking up at Mom like a devoted puppy.  
“Swallow first,” Token says, and from the dirty look Clyde shoots him, Token obviously kicked him under the table.  
But wait, that’s another thing – the scrambled eggs on their own, without the bacon on the side that Grandma and Grandpa would normally have. Mom’s never complained about the smell, even though it makes her literally turn green. And Dad’s always says this was part of the Agreement they reached, back when he was a snotty-nosed kid refusing to eat meat. The Agreement basically boils down to “live and let live,” or maybe that should be “eat and let eat”; Grandma had agreed to pay for tofu and Quorn and whatever else as long as Dad shut up about what the rest of the family had for dinner. Sure, there’s that German paté thing Grandpa likes, the one where the packaging looks like a sausage – Jimmy’s scooping some out now, and spreading it across a piece of toast. There’s quarter-sized pieces of pepperoni, too, and sliced ham sitting next to the big lump of Gouda cheese. But, knowing Grandma, she probably left the bacon in the fridge for Mom’s sake – one less unpleasant thing to for her to deal with today.  
Anyway, Tweek doesn’t exactly _mind_ that the kitchen doesn’t stink of burned flesh. He grins sleepily over at Grandma, who just raises one of her tufty white eyebrows in response – but that’s Grandma for you.  
Tweek adds a _little_ milk from the carton of half-and-half someone’s left out on the table, takes a sip of coffee – mm, perfect – and closes his eyes as the familiar heat burns its way down his throat and into his chest. It’s not a mug he’s seen before; the inside’s a dark brown which is kind of odd, and there’s this airbrushed landscape printed on it with… Aw Jesus, more ducks! And so damn many of them! Three mallards are frolicking in this pond with a bunch of reeds in the foreground, while two more are flapping off past the skinny pine trees and into the murky sunset in the background. It’s pretty much the tackiest thing he’s seen in his life, too – stuff like the _sky_ being brown, and sort of tastefully fading into a mustard yellow? The way the sky literally never looks in real life unless, say, the _world_ is ending? Like, who even _designed_ this atrocity?  
“Oh yeah,” Grandma says, “I thrifted that one just for you. Set me back one whole dollar.”  
Damage control, damage control, what the hell should he even say?! I’ll pay you back that dollar if I can smash it? Then suddenly, the solution’s staring him in the face, and the relief actually makes Tweek’s knees buckle. “It’s great,” he replies, taking another sip to help his nerves, “Perfect size. You know I like ‘em big.”  
“That’s w-what _she_ said,” Jimmy quips, because there was no _way_ Jimmy would be able to let that lie, and it works, thank God, that’s his distraction in the can.  
While everybody’s laughing at Jimmy, Tweek grabs one of the empty chairs and sits down next to Token, just as Dad passes him a plate of scrambled eggs. Two slices of buttered white sourdough on the side, courtesy of Mom, who’s now carving her way through the whole loaf out of sheer nerves. Tweek kind of wants to get back up and go cuddle her, but Mom’s probably just one clumsy hug away from starting to cry again.  
Anyway, there’s this trick to how Dad makes the eggs extra fluffy by mixing in just a little bit of milk; it’s so good that Tweek winds up closing his eyes while he eats.  
“So then their plane landed,” Grandma is saying, clearly returning to a story Tweek interrupted when he showed up, “And Helen waddled out of that security sluice thing, big as a house!” This is clearly an exaggeration; but that’s how Grandma tells stories, on the rare occasions that she chooses to – nobody’s safe. Tweek knows, though, that Mom had had no idea she was pregnant with him for the first few months, because she hadn’t grown much of a belly and never even felt sick, just sleepy. That had been what prompted Dad to take her to see a doctor eventually; he’d thought Mom had come down with some new type of altitude sickness because he’d find her sleeping literally everywhere. Under the counter in the coffee shop, out in the shed where they’d kept their two goats… Even curled up inside their wardrobe one time; Dad’s always said _that_ had been what made him decide that enough was enough.  
“And we’d all been saying, she must be weak from all that travel,” Grandma goes on, “From all those hours on a plane. Martin was all ready to toss his puffer-coat on the floor in case she fainted,” She takes a second to smile fondly, like she sometimes does when she’s talking about Uncle Martin, “So she’d have something to _land_ on. Then what happens? _He_ goes and faints!” Grandma jabs her thumb over her bony shoulder at Dad, who gives an indignant twitch. Tweek’s heard this story like a million times, but he still can’t help but snort.  
“Well of _course_ I fainted,” Dad blurts out, waving the spatula in the air and dropping tiny bits of scrambled egg on the counter, “You were a hairless skeleton!”  
“Hey, I wore that beanie,” Grandma says, like that would’ve made everything better, “I think it was even one of your old ones.”  
“Yay, hairless skeleton wearing my hat.” Dad rolls his eyes at the ceiling.  
That makes Grandpa laugh his sandpaper laugh and shake his head, nudging Jimmy like he’s saying, Can you believe my stupid son. “She wanted to tell you about the cancer in person,” he says, shrugging, once he’s got his mirth under control.  
“I don’t think “Oh by the way, I got cancer,” was the way to do it, though,” Dad retorts drily, before he turns away to grab himself a plate from the cupboard. “Put a couple slices in the toaster for me, will you, honey?”  
Mom, who’s been wiping up the egg he spilled with some kitchen paper, gives Dad a quick kiss on the cheek. “Sure thing.”  
Belatedly, Tweek realizes that his friends have all gone quiet. Tweak humor clearly isn’t everybody’s cup of tea; and why would he even expect them to find cancer stories funny? Clyde’s stopped chewing; Token’s just sitting there with his mouth open, and even Jimmy looks a little stunned. This is just… one of those stories he’s grown up hearing, but for the first time, Tweek can tell that it actually makes Dad a little bit mad. And Tweek suddenly _gets_ it. Last night, when he’d held Mom while she shook like a leaf, he’d realized how much _smaller_ she was. He can’t imagine _Mom_ as a hairless skeleton; he doesn’t want to.  
So he takes a big bite of toast and shoves three whole forkfuls of scrambled eggs in his mouth, before he says, “This is _so_ good,” only of course it comes out all garbled. But it breaks the weird mood up, with Grandma snapping her finger into his temple, going “Chew with your mouth shut, honestly,” and Clyde telling Dad it’s the best scrambled eggs he’s ever had. 

Craig and _all_ the guys end up crammed into the Prius for the drive out to Tweek’s evil dead grandma’s place, not that this is a bad thing. Sure, Craig can pretty much rest his chin on his knee, but it also forces him and Tweek to sit in a very… squished-up manner. Tweek’s hair, tickling Craig’s nose, smells all minty and fresh after his quick shower. They’re both wearing their new-old Hemmingway sweatshirts, and Craig made sure to pull Tweek’s shirt-collar out before they left the house, tucking it neatly over the neckline. He looks cute enough to eat. Meanwhile, Craig has discovered that Tweek’s dad cut thumbholes into the sleeves, but that kind of just makes it even better.  
Clyde’s got the seat on Tweek’s other side, right behind Token. He and Jimmy have their stupid not-even-matching foodie sweatshirts on again, though that’s probably because neither of them brought any other sweaters for a trip this short. It can’t be _that_ much fun without Tweek joining in, but he’s defected to Craig’s side now. Anyway, Clyde’s already whining about the cramped conditions and offering to drive them instead, as if that’s ever going to happen.  
“Not on your life,” Token tells him firmly, as the Prius glides into formation behind the Datsun. By the time Craig had joined the rest of the guys for breakfast, even _he_ had been able to tell that Tweek’s mom was barely keeping it together. So the five of them had just all drifted over to Token’s car when it was time to go; even Jimmy had turned down Mr Tweak’s half-hearted offer of more driving practice.  
“Think of th-this as a p-p-preview,” Jimmy’s saying now, leering back at Clyde from the passenger seat, “Of what d-driving to school’s going to be like!”  
Hm, yeah, there’s a point. Craig’s been back in school since the start of term, but so far, Mom and Dad have taken turns driving and dropping Tricia and him off at their respective schools. It’s turned into this _thing_ his family does now, all four of them sharing the same car because Mom’s car got sold to help cover Craig’s hospital bills. Craig’s doing his best not to feel guilty about that; it’s not like he _chose_ to get tossed off his bike by some asshole surgeon and his BMW. And it’s been weirdly nice, just the four of them in their little metal bubble. Mom and Dad bitching about which radio station to play; while Tricia draws stars and flowers in condensation on the window. But, he’s also longingly watched the Prius pull up in the Valmers’ driveway; a couple of times he’s even waved to the guys as Tweek hopped out of the passenger seat to make space for Jimmy. Truth is; he’s been kind of dying to join them…  
“Driving to school is like, almost over before the trip’s even _started,”_ Clyde argues. “Tweek’ll just _enjoy_ my armpit heat when we’re driving to _school._ Won’t you, Tweek? And anyway,” he goes on, before Tweek has a chance to reply, “We’re all _meant_ to be together then, the five of us.”  
Craig rolls his eyes at the ceiling. How can Clyde just come out and say something so embarrassing, like it’s totally logical? He’s not even blushing, the cheesy bastard.  
“But now we’re like, driving to a whole other _town,”_ Clyde is saying, while Tweek checks his phone, snorts, and shows the screen to Craig.  
It’s an Insta DM from Bebe Stevens, the latest in a long conversation thread as far as Craig can tell. All it says is, “Is Clyde being good”, but that suddenly explains _everything._  
“How’s that coffee sitting with you,” Craig drawls, while Tweek’s busy typing a response to Bebe.  
Clyde’s complaints immediately change track. “Dude! I practically shit black _water_ this morning,” he exclaims, prompting a chorus of “Eww’s” from the rest of the gang.  
“Coffee _is_ a diarrhetic,” Token says primly, as they turn a corner. They’re still in suburbia, with big, tired-looking houses and overgrown gardens. The roads are fairly empty; anybody who’s going to church today will have gone already.  
“It’s not like I _mind_ sitting in your armpit,” Tweek’s saying to Clyde, so innocently that Craig has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “I’m sure armpit heat was how the cavemen kept warm. You know, before they discovered fire and stuff?”  
Clyde snorts. “I’d tickle you, but that might tip the car over.”  
Now Tweek’s the one laughing, and not for the first time, Craig is struck by the difference in him. He still remembers a time when Tweek would duck his head and hunch his shoulders up whenever people talked to him. And he knows he can’t take the credit for it – at least, not on his own. The guys were the ones who convinced Tweek that he’s worth hanging out with; that he deserves being listened to and included in stuff.  
A ridiculous amount of love suddenly swells in Craig’s chest, because everyone sitting in this car right now is so dear to him. “Dumbass,” he tells Clyde affectionately.  
“So listen,” Token clears his throat, “Tweek. I just need to know, what the hell does TBT actually stand for?”  
Tweek actually smirks. “You’re totally not going to believe me.”  
“Aw, dude,” Clyde complains, “Now you _have_ to tell us!”  
“Guess,” Tweek says, and that smirk of his is widening.  
“Throwback Th-Thursday,” Jimmy hazards, though he’s obviously not serious.  
“Hah! Tomato, Bolognese… Tagliatelle!” Clyde, who’s clearly also kidding, still sounds awfully pleased with himself for having come up with that.  
Tweek shakes his head. “Tom Bombadil Tweak,” he says, and the whole car immediately explodes in helpless laughter. Not even Craig, who likes to think of himself as a humourless asshole, is able to hold it in.  
“No, no way,” Token pants, leaning over the steering wheel for a second.  
“Oh Jesus, your poor cousin!”  
“And his _brother,”_ Tweek has to raise his voice to be heard over the shrieks and howls, “The one we call Thor? His full name’s Thorin Tweak!”  
“Bwah-ha!” Jimmy slaps the dashboard, and there are actual tears of laughter running down his cheeks.  
“That’s borderline child abuse,” Craig hears himself say; then thinks, Oh shit. But to his relief everyone just keeps on laughing. So it must’ve been fine, then – no weird word substitutions. Nugget-free speech.  
“I bet you all thought it couldn’t get any worse than my name,” Tweek is saying, “But my uncle Simon’s such a huge Tolkien nerd! Guess what he’d have named poor TBT if he’d been a girl?”  
Craig honestly does try, but it’s been years since he read Lord of the Rings (he was twelve at the time, so he’d actually cried when it looked like Frodo had died). So the only name he can think of is Arwen, and that seems a little too normal.  
“Galadriel Tweak,” Token asks, but Tweek shakes his head.  
“Arwen Tweak?” Clyde looks hopefully at Tweek, who shakes his head again.  
“Lobelia S-Sackville Baggins Tweak?” Jimmy’s obviously still joking around.  
“I’d go with Tauriel,” Craig says, thinking out loud, “Except she wasn’t in the books, and your cousin must’ve been born by then anyway…?” He glances over at his boyfriend, who nods.  
“It was gonna be Tinuviel Tweak!”  
After that, it’s impossible to talk for a while. Everybody’s too busy laughing their asses off.  
“Hey Tweek,” Jimmy pipes up, when everybody’s caught their breath and more or less recovered, “I’ve been m-m-meaning to say, your g-grandpa’s so cool!”  
Craig cranes his neck to get a good look at Jimmy’s face in the rear-view mirror, but his friend doesn’t actually _look_ like he’s being sarcastic.  
“You think?” Tweek looks both puzzled and happy.  
“He showed T-Token and me this c-comedy from the Seventies,” Jimmy goes on, “Cheech and Ch-Ch-Chong?”  
Tweek tips his head backwards and groans, but it’s a fond sort of groan. “Oh God, Cheech and Chong,” he says, “Grandpa got to you, too! Stoner humor,” he adds, when Craig just looks at him blankly. “Hey man, am I driving okay?”  
Craig blinks, because Tweek’s sitting back here with him, and he doesn’t even know _how_ to drive, before he realizes his boyfriend’s quoting something. Jimmy confirms his suspicion a second later, when he goes, “I think we’re p-parked, man,” before he collapses in giggles.  
Token groans, “And that dogshit joint,” which only makes Tweek and Jimmy laugh harder.  
“Guess we had to be there,” Clyde says, looking over Tweek’s head at Craig. “That was probably when I went out back to check in with Bebe.”  
“Like a good little bitch,” Jimmy says, in such an understanding and agreeable tone that Clyde nods for maybe a full five seconds before he lets out an indignant, “Hey!”  
“So Bebe was the one,” Token chimes in, “Who made you promise – ”  
“More like sign a c-c-contract in your own blood!”  
“ – to try everything you’re given and pretend you like it?”  
“Dude,” Craig tells Token flatly, “I thought it was _you.”_  
“Me too,” Tweek snorts, and just lets his head drop down on Craig’s shoulder so casually that Craig’s breath hitches in his throat for a second.  
Now Token and Clyde are both protesting loudly, and the whole thing is so stupid, and Craig just can’t believe how lucky he is. To have this, all of it – his life, his friends. And Tweek. 

When they finally arrive, the place is kind of unimpressive. Sure, Tweek wasn’t exactly expecting a sign pointing at the building that says “Evil Dwelleth Here”, but it’s so run-down and ordinary that it’s almost a little sad. His _other_ grandmother had lived above a hairdresser’s salon, in a block of flats built on top of a row of ground-level stores. So there’s the salon, “Trixie’s”, sandwiched between a tiny convenience store, and a lawyer’s office where the windows are crammed full of dusty green pot plants. “W. Carson, Criminal Defence Attorney” is printed on the glass in the door in peeling gold letters, with a hand-written sign taped underneath promising that W. Carson is available 24-hours, followed by a phone number. And last but not least; at the far end of the row there’s a Thai restaurant called “The Four Season’s” – complete with misplaced apostrophe at the end – that has Token howling and slapping the roof of the Prius when he sees it.  
“Four Seasons is a,” Token pants, “A hotel chain, okay? A very…” he has to close his eyes for a second, like he’s thumbing through a mental catalogue and looking for the right word, “Very _nice_ hotel.”  
Tweek remembers Token casually offering to pay for two hotel rooms at the Hyatt in Denver, the way you’d offer to buy someone a coffee. So what Token calls a _nice_ hotel must be pretty _damn_ nice.  
Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are approaching the landlord, who’s been waiting for them inside one of those wood-grain Ford Station Wagons. Tweek’s never been able to make up his mind on whether that’s a seriously cool vintage car or if it just looks like someone slapped wheels on a sideboard and called it a day. Aside from a snow-covered little red hatchback, the Station Wagon is the only other car that’s parked out here.  
The landlord is tall, red-faced and big-bellied. He’s got a mop of wild white hair with just a little bit of blonde left in it. Tweek hurries over to join his parents just in time to catch him saying, “And that was her car. Keys should be somewhere inside the apartment; I haven’t touched anything. Only people who did were the police.”  
Tweek’s kind of hazy on the details, and he’s pretty sure his parents have kept it that way on purpose. But what he does know about his grandmother’s death is that she was found up there, in her apartment, when the next-door neighbour noticed… a smell.  
“Left the windows open,” the landlord is saying, pulling a big jangly keychain out of one coat pocket, “After the cleaners were done, to let some air in. And she’d only been like that for a day or so. So the stink shouldn’t be too bad.”  
“We appreciate that,” Dad says, holding his hand out for the key. Mom doesn’t say anything at all, so Tweek just casually leans against her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see how Craig and the rest of the guys are hanging back, giving them space.  
“Well,” the landlord says, and it’s only now Tweek realizes that the guy’s still holding onto the key, “The rent’s not a problem or anything, since she had a direct debit set up. And I’m taking the cleaning crew out of her deposit. But I just have to say, it isn’t right. Old lady like that, living all by herself. And her daughter only shows up to sift through her stuff when she’s dead.”  
Time slows down, and Tweek isn’t sure if he’s more angry or afraid. Dad’s got his mouth dangling open, but he’s also doing those deep nose breaths he only does when he’s about to seriously explode. And Tweek can feel his own hand knotting into a fist, his own weight shifting to the front of his feet. Am I really going to jump this asshole, he thinks, and he doesn’t even know the answer.  
That’s when Mom’s hand moves through the air, quick as a flash, snatching the key from the fat landlord’s fingers. “And now,” Mom says, smiling sweetly at him, “You’ve said what you wanted to say. So now you can leave.”  
Maybe the guy was expecting Mom to get embarrassed, or start explaining why she hasn’t been in touch with the woman who used to torture her as a child. He wasn’t expecting _this,_ though, so he quickly shuffles back to his tacky old car – Tweek knows wood grain cars will forever remind him of this moment – and drives off without another word.  
“Bastard,” Dad says, very quietly. Mom gives him a quick peck on the cheek, before she waves the guys over.  
“Come on, boys,” she chirps, smiling even wider. “Let’s go sift through my dead mother’s stuff!” 

Usually, Jimmy’s the one who goes and cheers people up. But that old dude who brought the keys over didn’t have much of what Craig’s mom calls an “indoor voice”, so of course the four of them heard _everything_ the guy said to Mrs Tweak. And even Jimmy can’t seem to find a way to make that shit funny. So they’re all filing through the narrow hallway of this evil old lady, and Craig’s wracking his brains for something, anything, he can say to at least make _Tweek_ feel a little better. Because well, his boyfriend looked like he wanted to rip that old man’s throat out with his teeth.  
Humorless asshole or not, Craig had better try to lighten things up around here.  
This place really is a shithole, though. There’s shitty macramé art hanging on the walls, and thick shag carpets on the floor that go crunch under their shoes. At least it doesn’t smell of decomposing human in here, though it seriously stinks of cigarettes. Oh, and it’s a mess. Stacks of paper on the burn-marked coffee table, held down with improvised paperweights like an overflowing ashtray or a woman’s shoe.  
“Hadn’t touched anything, had he,” Tweek’s dad mutters, raising an eyebrow. Craig thinks he’s probably right; if the old lady kept any cash in here, that landlord’s probably helped himself to it.  
“Mm.” Tweek’s mom is staring off into space, absently playing with that key on her necklace.  
“It’s very… Derelicte,” Craig drawls, making a show of looking around.  
It makes him so stupidly happy when Tweek laughs and squeezes his hand.  
“Right,” Mr Tweak says, draping his green puffer jacket over the back of the only dining chair. Then he starts pulling something out from the back pocket of his paint-splattered jeans, and Craig recognizes that green bag Mrs Tweak had yesterday, the one with the shitty vegetable pun. “I’ve arranged for Goodwill to stop by here around two, two-thirty, which is pretty decent of them since it’s a Sunday and all that. So I think what we need to do first, is empty out all the furniture and start carrying that downstairs. Please put any papers you find to one side, okay? And let’s put any meds we find in this.” Mr Tweak shakes the fabric bag out, and looks around for a second before he hands it off one of the door-knobs. “I’ve got some cardboard boxes in the trunk,” he goes on, “To put the clothes and knick-knacks in, so we can grab those on the way back up.”  
“I v-volunteer to look through all this shit,” Jimmy says, propping his crutches up against the side of the dining table. Then he pulls the chair out, still with Mr Tweak’s jacket hanging on it.  
“Be my guest, Jimmy.” Mr Tweak sounds relieved; Craig figures he was probably hoping to give Jimmy that job anyway. Jimmy’s no idiot, he obviously knows he shouldn’t be dragging any furniture around. Craig’s pretty sure he volunteered just to avoid that whole awkwardness.  
“Do you want to… keep anything?” At Clyde’s uncertain question, Craig looks over his shoulder, just in time to catch Mrs Tweak shaking her head.  
“Nah,” she says, smiling as she reaches up top pet Clyde on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I’m not sad or anything. We just need to get this done.”  
“We’re operating with two categories here,” her husband says, “Donate and toss. Right, who wants to take the other end of that sofa?”  
“I’ll do it,” Craig says, and then everyone goes sort of quiet.  
“Hey, listen,” Token begins, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea…”  
“Why don’t you give Jimmy a hand with sorting out that mess instead,” Mr Tweak suggests, and he’s being so diplomatic that he doesn’t even use the word “help” in the same sentence as Jimmy’s name. It makes Craig want to punch something. He’s not helpless anymore, he’s back to normal, he’s…  
“It’s fine,” Craig says, trying not to sound as homicidal as he feels, “I’ve been lifting weights and everything!”  
Bam. There isn’t a person in here who doesn’t freeze up; so Craig instantly knows he’s gone and done it again. Goddamn it!  
“Uh, Craig,” Tweek begins, and he’s doing that thing where he chews on one side of his lip, so his smile comes out all lopsided, “I think you meant to say you’ve been lifting weights, right? But what you actually said –”  
“I don’t care what I said,” Craig snaps. Just for a second, he even means it. But then he’s watching Tweek’s face crumple, and it’s just too much, and he’s so sorry but it’s too late. Two strides take him back into the hallway, where he yanks the door open hard enough for all that yellowed knot shit on the walls to flap. He runs down the stairs, even though he’s not supposed to, holding the bannisters with both hands like an old man because he can feel his right knee start to buckle.  
Eyes burning, he stumbles out into the sunlight – still wearing his jacket, at least there’s that. Everything looks so deceptively normal. Craig blows out one long, shaky breath, watching it turn to smoke. He didn’t just…  
There’s the sound of quacking right above his head, so Craig looks up. Just in time to see the duck that’s gliding through the air above him drop a huge shit right towards his head. He swears and jumps to one side, then flips the duck off on pure reflex after the gob of white ammonia has smacked into the sidewalk like an inch away from his shoe.  
“Hey.”  
Craig spins around, and there he is – Tweek. Standing maybe six feet away from him, wearing that sweatshirt that matches Craig’s own, and leaning against the front door. Running his hand through his fringe before he starts gently tugging on it. Craig almost goes over there to take that hand between both of his own, but then he stops himself. After what he’s done…  
“Did you make it do that,” he asks instead, hating how his voice sounds all… emotional, “With your mind?”  
And Tweek actually laughs, though his laugh is brittle and kind of shrill. “You mean,” he says, “Did I make that duck try to shit on you? Nah.”  
“So.” Craig swallows. “So you’re not that mad.”  
That’s when Tweek crosses the distance between them, and reaches up to run his fingertips down the line of Craig’s jaw. “Would you want me to stop,” he asks, “Stop saying anything when you…”  
“No! Jesus, Tweek, I…” Before he can second-guess himself, or convince himself that Tweek’s actually pissed as hell but just hiding it really well, Craig grabs him and clumsily yanks him into a hug. He feels Tweek exhale and sort of melt into his chest, feels his little hands slip under his jacket, bunching up the fabric of his sweatshirt. Eyes stinging with relief, he buries his face in Tweek’s hair and just breathes it in, the smell of minty shampoo and coffee and just _him._ “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have…” He swallows some snot.  
“You know,” Tweek is saying, very softly, “People always used to look at me like there was something wrong with me. And it used to stress me out, and make me like a hundred times more nervous, so then I’d end up looking even more, you know, weird.”  
“And that sucked,” Craig supplies helpfully, while his arms lock around Tweek’s waist.  
“It seriously sucked,” Tweek agrees. “So I’m not saying I get what it’s like, but…”  
“You do get it,” Craig insists, so earnestly that it’s making his breathing hitch. “Of course you get it, babe. Because remember when I said to you, I could barely even tell where you start and I begin?”  
Something about the way Tweek breathes out tells him that his boyfriend is smiling. “Back when you used to possess me, just so you could punch people you don’t like.”  
Craig opens his eyes and blinks a little. The sky may be grey all over, but you can still tell that there’s a sun back there somewhere behind those clouds. “I don’t deserve you.”  
“Well,” Tweek says, as Craig finally has the guts to look down and into his eyes, “You’ve still got me.”


	7. You don't need TV when you've got vampire porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bit the bullet and added another chapter - this thing is getting longer than I'd planned! Looks like I'm just not ready to let go yet, haha. 
> 
> As for the romance novels in this chapter; I made up the one called The Vampire's Mistress, but all the others are surprisingly real. Cassie Edwards writes the lowkey racist Native American romance novels (did I say lowkey, I meant "staggeringly racist") and Christine Feehan has written a long series about vampires where every single book has the word "Dark" in the title. Cassie Edwards has a similar "naming convention" going on with her own novels. I imagine it's getting hard to come up with new titles now, after they've used up all the "good" words, and that someday soon, the world will be treated to a book called "Dark Ardvark". 
> 
> Oh! And I'm going to do a little contest over on my Instagram soon! Details to follow... If we're not mutuals already, you can always follow me on @suicidaltoys and wait for me to get my shit together.

The first thing Craig says when he walks through the front door of that apartment is, “I’m sorry!” He says it loud enough for whoever’s in the living room, and probably in the bedroom beyond, to hear. Then he slides his hand out of Tweek’s, after giving it a quick squeeze, and strides inside. Back to his old self already, as if their little talk out in the parking lot was all he’d needed. Or… maybe it really was?  
“I shouldn’t be adding my own shit to your pile,” Craig is saying, in his usual measured, nasal voice, “Especially not today. It just gets embarrassing, screwing up when I talk.”  
Tweek, who’s been half running to keep up, suddenly stops. I really did that, he thinks, and what he’s feeling is a mixture of intense pride and relief. Knowing that he was the one who helped Craig calm down, that he made a difference… He picks up the pace again, trying not to smile like an idiot.  
“C-count on Tweek to help you p-p-pull your head out of your asshole,” Jimmy says, looking up from the stacks of paper he’s been going through, just as Tweek slips inside behind Craig.  
Clyde pokes his head around what seems to be the bathroom door – not saying anything, just flashing a worried little grin at Tweek. He does his best to return that grin with interest.  
“Don’t worry about it, Craig,” Mom says, while she’s taping a list – oh Jesus, of course there’s a list, this is Mom after all – to the bedroom door. “Recovering from an accident like the one you had, well… That takes time, you know?”  
Craig drops his gaze to his black and brown Sorels – a Christmas gift from Clyde and his dad – and mutters, “Yeah, I know.”  
“Your mother called on her lunch break on Friday,” Dad shoots in, from the kitchenette, where he’s going through the kitchen cupboards with Token, “Made me swear not to work you too hard. Didn’t _actually_ threaten me with castration, but I wouldn’t put it past her.”  
“It’s fine.” Craig looks up, and he actually smiles! He smiles and waves his hand over the kitchen table, before pulling out one of the chairs. “I’ll sort through all this with Jimmy.”  
Clyde, looking relieved, asks, “What should I do about the bath mats and stuff, just toss ‘em?” It’s an obvious attempt at changing the subject, but it’s not like anybody minds.  
“Let me see…” Mom runs her finger down that page she just taped to the door. When Tweek walks up to where she’s standing, he sees that even though she’s using her regular mint green masking tape, the list’s actually been printed. “That _lovely_ man left this for us,” Mom rolls her eyes at the nicotine-stained ceiling. “It’s the inventory; so we won’t throw out anything that belongs to him.”  
“Well, _that_ was super thoughtful,” Tweek says, and joins in with an eyeroll of his own.  
“Okay, so it says bath mat on here,” Mom goes on, pulling Tweek close for a second so she can muss his hair. “But there’s nothing about towels. Oh, but he listed the toothbrush holder!”  
That makes everybody laugh, and now the oppressive mood seems to be gone. Tweek ends up carrying two of the three little nesting tables down – they’re seriously nasty, covered with mug stains and burn marks – while Dad follows him with the biggest table and a tasselled lamp. None of those are on the inventory, and Tweek has his doubts about whether the Goodwill people can even _sell_ this stuff, unless it’s for firewood.  
“It wasn’t exactly watertight science fiction,” Dad is saying, as he shoulders the door open, “That Emperor Vulcan storyline. Careful, it’s one of those snap-bolts.” Turns out Dad grabbed that Havok book Tweek got at the Star Trek con in Denver, just for something to read on the trip, and ploughed through the whole thing last night after Mom went back to sleep. “That part where they open a star gate and bring a whole _star_ through…” Dad shakes his head. “Nearly stopped reading there and then, but I really couldn’t go back to sleep, so…” He shrugs, before he clumsily puts the table he’s been carrying down one-handed, and pushes it up against the brick wall.  
“I know,” Tweek agrees, “And it gets stupider.” He manages to slide the two smaller tables in underneath the bigger one. “He wrote Havok right, though,” he adds, more or less to himself. Tweek’s prepared to swallow all kinds of plot holes if Havok still talks and acts like Havok.  
Dad balances the lamp on top of the tables, with a sarcastic “Tah-dah.”  
Tweek looks up at the grey skies. “Maybe we should get the tarp?”  
“It’s not supposed to rain until four,” Dad says, stretching and popping his shoulders. “So we might as well risk it.”  
Tweek shrugs – he figures, if it does rain on those tables, maybe it’ll _wash_ them. “The ones you got me were better,” he says, as they walk over to the Datsun. “The people look like human beings, I mean. _And_ the writing’s better.”  
“Oh really,” Dad turns to grin at him, as he pops the trunk open, “Wasn’t such a bad gift after all, then.”  
“Ugh, I never said it was bad,” Tweek growls, grabbing the tape gun they brought along from Tweak Bros, “You know I loved it, but…”  
But what had happened, in the lead-up to Christmas, was that Dad got hold of Tweek’s five dollar Havok book. He had a look in the back, at the “In case you enjoyed this volume” page, where the publisher had printed the titles and covers of six _other_ graphic novels featuring Havok. Tweek already owned three of those, but Dad had immediately gone downstairs to order the other three.  
And of course Tweek had _liked_ them! They were first three volumes of Uncanny Avengers, which Tweek, who likes the regular Avengers and _loves_ the _Young_ Avengers, had somehow never even heard of. There were two _more_ books with Havok in that series, but Dad had read some spoilers and held off on buying those.  
“Because I know Havok and Polaris are, what do you call it,” Dad had said, scratching the back of his head, “Your OTP? And in the next two books, there’s some time travel stuff where Havok winds up married to the Wasp. _And_ he gets kind of chargrilled, and I thought you might not like that.” He’d gone on to explain that those last two books were a separate storyline, but that he wouldn’t mind getting them for Tweek if he _did_ want to know what happened next.  
Tweek, who’d opened his present first, had been kind of speechless. He’d been so _pleased_ with his big surprise, three whole books by that Morrison guy who wrote Animal Man, that he couldn’t help but feel like an idiot. Their presents had kind of cancelled each other out, after all.  
But, Dad had been _crazy_ excited to get the Doom Patrol books. He must’ve read them all five times by now, _and_ he’s signed them up for DC Universe; just because of the live action Doom Patrol show. So it wasn’t like Tweek’s Christmas gift had _failed_ or anything.  
“Hey,” Dad says, giving his arm a gentle shake. “Tweek?”  
“Gah!” Jesus, how long was he even spacing out for?! “Sorry!”  
“Don’t be sorry, just take this,” Dad holds out a roll of black trash bags, “And go get the door. Sounds like Token and Clyde are on their way down.”  
Tweek grabs the roll and runs over, and now he can hear banging sounds, not to mention Token’s very measured swearing, coming from inside the door. Tweek pulls it open to let Clyde – walking backwards, which is _so_ unsafe –step over the threshold with the first part of the disgusting sofa. It had looked mustard back up in the apartment, but now that the backrest cushions have flopped over, Tweek can see that the original color was cream. Eww.  
“Goddamn sofa mother shit,” Token growls, still halfway down the stairs. It’s the worst thing Tweek’s ever heard him say, and it’s kind of… almost cute? He snorts, and just barely manages to turn it into a cough.  
“Hng,” Clyde says, through gritted teeth, as Dad nudges him to one side so he can help Clyde carry. As soon as Token steps through, Tweek jumps in next to him, fumbling for a grip. It’s still heavy, but with four of them it isn’t _that_ hard to turn the thing around and dump it next to the rest of the furniture.  
“It’s what I’ve always wanted,” Token drawls, rolling his shoulder and wincing, “Longer arms.”  
“I’m kinda glad Craig sat this one out,” Clyde pants, bent forwards with his hands on his knees, and Tweek can’t help but agree.  
“I’ll pay you in pizza,” Dad promises, and he looks super guilty. He won’t even let Clyde or Token help carry the boxes when the four of them head back upstairs – and they’re like, flattened cardboard!  
Back in the apartment, Craig and Jimmy have taken their coats off, and they’ve got three piles going – two on the table, one on the floor. “Bills, official-looking, and toss,” Craig explains, with a wave of his arm that sends a couple of sheets from the “bills” pile fluttering over to “official-looking”.  
Jimmy just clears his throat, and gives Craig a single, but very expressive eyebrow-wag.  
“Shit, sorry,” Craig says, and quickly puts them back. If he’s still thinking about what happened before, he’s not letting on.  
“You boys are making good headway,” Dad tells them, happily surprised.  
“Giggidy,” Jimmy replies, for some reason. It makes the other guys snort, though, so it’s got to mean _something._ At least Dad looks as confused as Tweek feels.  
“Where’d Helen go,” he mutters, crossing the room with a few long strides, and pushing the bedroom door open. “Honey?” And Tweek can see Mom in there, but she’s standing really still, hands held up to her throat in a little knot. Almost like she’s praying.  
Tweek has a bad, bad feeling about this. “Mom,” he says, and hurries in there after Dad. From behind him, he can hear footsteps and chairs scraping; the guys are coming too, but not all the way inside the room. It’s too small for that, really. Tiny and poky; which is probably why there was stuff piled everywhere when they first got here. Now, Mom seems to have started sorting through the clothes – until she simply went on “Pause”, that is. She’s staring straight at what looks like a side board out of the Great Gatsby; carved out of reddish brown wood and with a curved mirror mounted on top. Maybe that’s why it wound up in the bedroom? There are two cupboards on either side and three drawers in the middle; the bottom two with ornate keys sticking out of them.  
Staring at those keys, Tweek is hit by the strangest sense of deja-vu.  
“Mrs Tweak, that…” Token pushes past Tweek, breathless and wide-eyed, “That looks like an antique!” He starts taking pictures of the thing on his iPhone, from the front, then either side, and finally from below, crouching on the floor. Talking while he snaps away; too excited about this random discovery to notice that Mom doesn’t really react. “It could be Art Deco – it could be worth a lot of money. Shame one of the keys is missing, that might take the price down, but it’s still in amazing condition. Here,” Token starts thumbing through his contacts, “Just let me call my mom, okay? She knows this dealer…”  
“Token,” Clyde says, grabbing Token by the elbow and pulling his arm down. That, finally, seems to pull Token out of his own head. He closes his mouth and hangs his head, looking so mortally embarrassed that Tweek feels bad for him.  
“It was an heirloom,” Mom suddenly says, and her voice is all distant and weird. “She was always so proud of that thing. Handmade, belonged to her great grandmother…” Now Mom opens her hands, and Tweek can see that it was her key necklace she was holding on to, the silver chain spilling out between her fingers. He’s always thought it was such a pretty key. As a little kid, Tweek spent a lot of time staring at it, as it dangled from Mom’s neck, wondering what it might unlock. That key features in one of his earliest memories, sparkling in the sun. It’s silver all over, with a long shaft, a single, thick prong, and a circular handle with two downward bars topped by a longwise one. Like a double T inside a sphere. Or like a house with an attic, which is what Tweek used to think of it as, because he’d probably been weirder than your average kid.  
It matches those other two keys perfectly.  
“Helen,” Dad says, walking up behind Mom and putting one hand on each of her shoulders. It’s a question; a loaded one.  
“I wasn’t being honest with you,” Mom replies, “When I told you I’d found this key on the street. You see, my mother always kept her check-book in the top drawer, and all the keys were different.” Mom takes one slow step, then another, out of Dad’s embrace and towards that sideboard. “So the day they brought me back to her house to get my things, I…” With slow, dream-like movement, she lowers her right hand. “I took it, because I put something in here for her, and I figured she’d need her check-book.” She slips the key inside that empty keyhole, and of course it fits, it fits perfectly. “But I always wondered,” Mom looks over her shoulder for a second, and the way she smiles at Tweek suddenly makes his eyes sting, “If she ever called a locksmith. If she ever found it.”  
The key turns, and the click is so loud because everybody seems to be holding their breath.  
When Mom puts her hand inside that drawer, her whole arm is shaking. Then she pulls out two things – a faded Western Union check-book, on top of what looks like a child’s drawing. She lets the check-book flutter to the floor, and just stares at that drawing for a second. It’s a color pencil drawing of a little girl, holding her hand up like she’s waving. She’s wearing a blue dress, and her long brown hair hangs down almost to her waist in two braids. The dress has long sleeves, and the girl in the drawing has no face. Just a pink oval, colored in but left featureless on purpose.  
There are words, too, written in carefully shaped, lumpy blue letters: “YOU HURT ME AND I HATE YOU SOMETIMES BUT ILL MISS YOU TOO MOM.”  
The drawing slides from her fingers and lands face-up on the carpet; and Mom makes the most awful piping sound. That’s when Tweek can’t hold still anymore.  
“Aw Mom,” he says, throwing his arms around her, “Don’t be like that!”  
He’s vaguely aware that Dad’s wrapped his long arms around them both, and that Craig and the others are leaving; first the bedroom door clicks shut, and then the heavier front door. There’s that expression about someone shaking like a leaf; but Mom shakes like a _house_ falling down. And he’s so sad and so angry all at once – would it have _killed_ his stupid evil grandma to pay for a locksmith? Not that the old lady could have guessed, after everything she’d done, that her daughter would even try to forgive her.  
“Shh,” Dad is saying, “Shh. Toughest girl in the world.”

“Oh yeah,” Clyde sticks his hand in his pocket, “I was going to say, I found the car keys.” He pulls them out; a key and a fob, and a charm shaped like the state of Texas. There’s so many mysteries, Craig thinks, left behind when someone dies. Because why Texas, right? Was that her favorite place to go on holiday, or was the keychain an unwanted freebie that she just wound up using anyway? Come to think of it, if _he’d_ died when that BMW mowed him down, Craig would have left behind some mysteries of his own. Most notably the handwritten book of poetry he wrote for and about Tweek. Now there’s a horrifying thought.  
Goddamn it. Craig suddenly remembers that Token and Jimmy pretty much owned up to reading every single poem, and his cheeks instantly heat up.  
“Why T-Texas,” Jimmy is saying, and that makes Craig grin.  
“I’d say “Why put your cigarettes out on your own kid” would’ve been the more pertinent question,” Token drawls, before he kicks a stray pebble out onto the parking lot. Just the way he’s long words and forgetting to talk like a normal teenager shows you how uncomfortable Token is.  
“Well, at least Mrs Tweak can sell the car, right,” Clyde says, desperately trying to look on the bright side. “It’s got to be worth _something!”_ He points the fob at the dead lady’s car and clicks it, and the lights briefly flash in response.  
“A second-hand H-Honda C-C-Civic is hardly going to put Tweek through college,” Jimmy says, as they all walk over to take a closer look. Craig can totally tell what he’s doing. Predictably, Clyde laughs, and even Token cracks a smile.  
“Well no,” Clyde concedes, pulling his hand inside his sleeve before he wrenches the car door open. “But maybe she could buy like…” He frowns, thinking about it, before he slides into the driver’s seat. “A handbag or something? Gah, it’s cold in here!”  
Craig snorts, remembering that tote bag with the vegetable pun. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says, rolling his eyes at the grey clouds overhead. How long are they supposed to wait, anyway, before sending a scout up there to check the terrain?  
“M-Mrs Tweak d-doesn’t strike me as a h-h-handbag kind of lady,” Jimmy agrees, as he hobbles over and yanks open the door on the passenger side. “Come on, you guys, we m-might as well wait in the c-c-car.”  
Craig opens one of the back doors, and wonders if he should risk asking Clyde to turn the heating on. Maybe not, after he screwed up so badly earlier. At least they’re not going to freeze; Token scooped up all four of their coats on his way out of the apartment, because that’s just Token being Token.  
“Let’s see if I can even get this old girl started,” Clyde mutters, pushing the key into the ignition.  
“If no, I’ve got a cable,” Token promises, just before the engine hacks itself awake. Then he shrugs, and walks around to open the door behind Jimmy’ seat, saying, “Sounds like you, Jimmy, when you had that chest infection.”  
“Oh please, I sounded way w-w-worse,” Jimmy scoffs, casually fiddling with the dials. Suddenly, a gust of ice cold air blasts out of the little heaters in the dash board.  
“Jesus,” Token yelps, and Craig’s glad he wound up sitting behind Clyde. “Turn that shit off! But anyway, before they can even sell it,” Token goes on, “They’d need to get a transfer of ownership. My dad was telling me about that; how it’s way more complicated when the person’s dead.”  
By now, Jimmy’s got the heating under control, and there’s a very faint wisp of lukewarm air coming from the front. That’s not so bad.  
“So you don’t just inherit a car,” Clyde sounds honestly confused, “I mean, like you’d inherit a house or something? Because when Mom died, I think Dad just sold her car.”  
“Joint ownership,” Jimmy says, nodding sagely as he pops the glove compartment open. “My p-parents did that with b-both cars. Ah.” He pulls out a little red plastic folder that’s bulging with papers, and passes the whole wad over his shoulder to Token. “The b-b-birth certificate.”  
“Great, thanks,” Token spreads it open on his lap and eagerly starts straightening the loose papers out. His dad probably told him to keep an eye out for the registration papers.  
“That makes sense,” Craig says, dipping his toe back into the conversation, while Token is still going through that folder. What are they doing up there, he wonders. Is Tweek going to be okay, with his mom falling to pieces on him two days in a row?  
“Anyway,” Token shrugs, pulling his phone out, “I’ll just text my dad and tell him to get the documents ready. Dad said it’s technically illegal to drive it back to South Park without ownership,” he adds, “So here’s hoping the DMV’s open on Sundays out here.”  
Craig can’t help but smile. He would bet cold hard cash that Mr Black isn’t planning on charging the Tweaks a cent for this. He isn’t charging Craig’s parents for their lawsuit against Dr Gordon either, with the excuse that every law firm has to do a set number of pro bono cases a year anyway. Oh, Craig knows Mom and Dad don’t like it, but they don’t have much choice if they want to keep the house. Even with insurance, the hospital and rehab weren’t cheap.  
In his pocket, Craig’s phone gives off a quick buzz. He’s set everything to just vibrate now, after his friends gave him so much shit about his ringtone. Not that Power of Love isn’t a great song; Craig just got sick of Clyde and Jimmy joining in every damn time his phone rang.  
It’s a text from Tweek. “Everything’s fine now,” Craig reads out loud. “You guys can come back.” Then he smiles and shakes his head, because it’s so sweet, and so _Tweek._  
“Th-thoughtful little asshole, isn’t he,” Jimmy says, before he pops the door open and hauls himself to his feet.  
“I’m pretty sure that’s an oxymoron,” Token tells him, as if Jimmy doesn’t already know that.  
“Hey, who’re you calling a moron,” Clyde jokes, turning the engine off again, before reaching over the back of his seat and snatching Craig’s hat off his head.  
“Give that back,” Craig snaps, while Clyde leans out of the car and uses the hat to swat Token across the ass. He’s not really mad, though. Not at all. 

“Let me just throw this silly thing out,” Mom says, squatting down on the floor. She picks her old drawing up, and Tweek doesn’t know what to say, but Dad snatches it from her.  
“You can’t toss _this,”_ he exclaims, holding it way higher than Mom can reach, “It’s a rare Helen Tweak original!”  
That actually makes Mom laugh a little. “Oh, fine,” she says, leaning over to check her makeup again in that mirror on top of the sideboard, and dab away the last few smears of mascara. “Do what you want. But you’re not hanging _that_ on the wall back home, okay?”  
“He’s gonna hang it at Tweak Bros,” Tweek jokes, so relieved that he’s almost feeling dizzy.  
Mom laughs again. It looks like she’s almost back to normal, as she jabs her finger into Dad’s chest saying, “Don’t you dare!”  
Then the front door opens, and Token starts talking almost as soon as the guys get back in. “I texted my mom the photos I took,” he says, as if nothing’s happened at all, “Of that credenza thing?” It’s like he wants to get the drop on Mom before she can start crying again. “She thinks it looks, ah, legit,” Token goes on, and the way he tries to casually drop “legit” into the conversation is kind of adorable. “But her antiques guy needs to have a look at it in person? It’ll totally fit in my car though, if I put the back seat down. So yeah.”  
“I’m sorry if I scared you boys,” Mom says, reaching up to pet Token’s cheek like he’s a little kid – probably because she’s too short to pet his hair. Mom’s smile is so warm and reassuring; you’d have a hard time believing she was sobbing her heart out just fifteen minutes ago.  
“Uh, anyway, Clyde found the car keys – ”  
“Hey, _I_ was gonna…” Clyde mutters, holding the keys up, his thunder totally stolen.  
“ – So whenever you’re ready,” Token goes on, “My dad can give one of you a call about changing the ownership over?”  
“Oh, about that,” Mom says, and she’s smiling now, even though Tweek can _tell_ that she’s still sad, “Can’t we just give the car to Clyde?”  
Clyde drops the car keys, which clatter very faintly as they sink into the shag carpet. “But what,” he says, looking totally shell-shocked, “But no! I can’t accept a whole _car!”_  
It’s an amazing idea, though. Clyde needs a car; and the hell if Tweek wants it, even if he'd been _planning_ on learning to drive.  
“Well, we can’t very well give you _half_ a car,” Dad drawls, bending over to pick the keys back up.  
“You gave up the Rabbit to save Tweek’s life,” Mom tells him, taking big Clyde’s hand between both of her little ones and gently prying his fingers open. “So it’s only fair that we replace it,” she goes on, as Dad drops the keys onto Clyde’s palm, “When _another_ red car just lands in our laps. Right?”  
“In fact,” Dad agrees, “I’d say this was the Universe’s way of evening out the balance!”  
“No, what you’re _saying_ is,” Tweek grins up at Dad, “That my life is worth the price of a second-hand car.”  
Everybody laughs, even Clyde, though he still seems too shocked to speak.  
“It, ah, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Token says, clearing his throat, “I’m pretty sure, once Dad’s sorted the ownership; he can oversee you guys selling it to Clyde for some nominal amount.”  
“What,” Clyde’s found his voice at last, “Like a _dollar_ or something?”  
“Sold,” Dad says, slapping Clyde on the back. “I’ll give Steven a call, and we’ll handle the admin,” he adds, walking over to the dining table to dig his phone out of his coat pocket. “And I wonder if my buddy Mike at the DMV minds doing me a little favour…”  
Jimmy hobbles over to Clyde and pokes him in the side. “W-wake up, Nugget,” he teases, after Clyde gives a big jolt.  
Tweek snickers, only then _he’s_ the one who jumps a foot five seconds later, when Craig hugs him from behind. “You okay, honey,” Craig asks, very quietly. Craig’s breath is warm on his neck, but when Tweek grabs for his hands, they’re like ice.  
“I’m fine,” he says, twisting in Craig’s embrace so they can look at each other. “Wanna come help me box up the books and stuff? If Jimmy can spare you?”  
He can feel Craig letting a deep breath out, like he was actually worried about him. “Sure,” Craig says, in his normal, toneless voice, before he bends his neck and gives Tweek the world’s fastest kiss, right on the tip of his nose. “Jimmy?”  
Jimmy smiles and shrugs. “I was n-nearly done anyway.”  
So then Craig leads the way into the bedroom, where the bookshelves are crammed full. Mainly with romance novels, though there _is_ the odd car manual or road atlas crammed in between them. _Four_ mismatched bookshelves, and none of them are on the list.  
“Let’s just stack everything on the floor for now,” Tweek suggests, his stomach sinking at the thought of packing all of these up. Do they even have enough boxes?  
“Sure.” Craig starts pulling books off the highest shelf, the one crammed into the corner by the only window. “We shouldn’t fill the boxes completely,” he adds off-handedly, “Or they’ll just tear.”  
“I’d be a _shame_ if these got damaged, all right,” Tweek says, with what he thinks is a good attempt at sarcasm. “Eww,” he exclaims, as he suddenly takes a proper look at the books in his hands, “Look at this stuff, Jesus!” They all feature shirtless Native American guys on the cover – sometimes on horseback, sometimes holding a bow and arrow, or just staring manfully off in the distance with a wolf posing in the background. Sometimes there’s a white woman thrown in, too – clinging to the guy, or falling out of her own dress. Or both, even. Propelled by sheer disbelief, he starts reading the titles out loud. “Savage Love, Savage Torment, Savage Arrow…” Tweek passes the top one to Craig, whose eyebrows disappear up under his hat. “Isn’t this kind of racist?!”  
On the cover of the book Tweek just handed over, a shirtless Native American guy is riding a white horse past a bunch of tipis, his long hair fluttering against the purple sky. “Savage Trust,” Craig drawls, holding it gingerly between two fingers. “I mean, at least it isn’t Savage _Thrust._ Right, honey?”  
Tweek just drops the whole armful on the floor. “I shouldn’t be surprised, really,” he says, with a little shudder, “That my evil dead grandma read cultural appropriation porn.”  
Craig snorts. “What if that was a section at the bookstore,” he says, and his tone is dry but his eyes are shining. “Oh look,” he pulls a book down from one of the higher shelves, and holds it up so Tweek can see the cover, “Vampire porn.”  
Tweek immediately starts laughing, because that cover is just ridiculous. And because the vampire looks a bit like one of the guys from Supernatural, except airbrushed to hell. He’s got longish brown hair that sort of billows around his face, and a cheeky half-smile that flashes a single fang at you.  
“The Vampire’s Mistress,” Craig says, and it takes Tweek a second to realize he’s reading the title off the spine. Then, to Tweek’s total surprise, Craig opens the book, bending the cheap spine with an audible snap, and starts to read – our loud. “His fingers traced a sensual trail down my shoulder,” he reads, in a flat, monotone voice, “And I felt my pulse quicken with the red-hot pulse of desire.”  
Tweek snorts, because Craig sounds like he’s reading out a shopping list or something.  
“His nails dug into my flesh,” Craig goes on, still in the same “I-am-dead-inside” voice, “Even as his bulge pressed against my spine.”  
“His bulge,” Tweek wheezes, and he actually has to sit down on the floor now – he’s literally running out of breath.  
“Bulge pressed against my spine,” Craig repeats, like he’s trying to find his place again or something, and not at all like he wants Tweek to die laughing. He looks up from the book, locking eyes with Tweek. One corner of his mouth gives the tiniest twitch. “I gasped.”  
“Gah-ha-ha!” Now flat on all fours, Tweek slaps the floor and howls. Craig joins him a second later, sliding his arm over Tweek’s shoulders and pressing his forehead against Tweek’s, while they laugh until they run out of air.  
“Jesus,” Tweek pants, pulling The Vampire’s Mistress out of Craig’s other hand so he can fan himself with it. “You don’t need TV when you’ve got vampire porn!”  
“That’s what I’m gonna call my autobiography,” Craig drawls, looking very pleased with himself as he snaps his fingers and points at Tweek. “That’s the title, right there.”  
“And the author photo can be that picture of you in the Red Racer outfit!”  
Tweek feels his heart give a little _squeeze_ when Craig starts laughing again. “Oh, for sure, honey! For sure!” 

Craig and Tweek finish boxing up the old lady’s books just as the pizzas arrive. Tweek’s mom ordered them – five whole pizzas – with plenty of input from Jimmy and Clyde. So there’s a Pepperoni _and_ a Meat Fest, as well as a chicken and mushroom one. There are also two veggie pizzas, and they do smell good. But, Craig figures that’d be like stealing the only food Tweek and his parents can eat right off their plates… not that he even wants veggie pizza anyway. Mr Tweak gets paper plates and two bottles of soda – one fizzy lemonade and one Champagne flavour, of all things, but no colas. There’s a huge flask of coffee, too, and of course that’s what the grownups go for. But to Craig’s surprise Tweek actually opts for Champagne pop. They all toast the fact that they’re _nearly_ done in Tweak Bros cups – the Goodwill Truck isn’t due for another forty minutes, so they still have chairs to sit on while they eat. Tweek and Craig share one of the chairs, sitting on one corner each; Mrs Tweak, Jimmy (who’s nose deep in one of the dead lady’s bodice rippers, reading while he eats) and Token have the other three. Mr Tweak sort of half sits on the dormant radiator while he eats, when he isn’t pacing the floor, and Clyde is happy to sit on the rug.  
“I find it odd,” Token says, “That the landlord wants to keep the table but ditch the dining chairs.”  
“It’s not as gross as the coffee table was,” Clyde suggests, shrugging, and Craig watches Tweek’s mom give a little shudder. The coffee table was full of little burn marks; the sofa was probably the old lady’s favorite spot to smoke.  
“Did she kill herself,” Tweek suddenly asks, out of nowhere.  
Everyone falls silent, and Craigs sees how Tweek’s parents exchange an unreadable glance.  
“What makes you say that,” Mr Tweak counters, while Mrs Tweak shakes her head.  
“Um, I just thought…” Tweek starts picking at the edge of his paper plate, where he’s spilled a little tomato sauce. “You know…” Almost without thinking, Craig leans a little closer, and Tweek immediately presses his scrawny torso into his side. “That maybe it runs in the family,” Tweek finishes, before he tears that little corner with the sauce off.  
“No,” Mrs Tweak exclaims, shaking her head again, “No, no, no, she had emphysema! That’s why she had all this stuff…” she reaches down, and grabs a bag off the floor. Craning his neck to look inside, Craig sees an oxygen mask (also filthy, like everything in this apartment) and a long plastic tube. “There were a few tanks of oxygen in here too, but the ambulance people took those when they collected the body.”  
“Yeah, we’re not sure if she died on the bed or on the sofa,” Mr Tweek shoots in, with a seriously evil grin.  
“Eww,” Clyde and Token yell, in perfect sync.  
“But she definitely didn’t die by her own hand.” Tweek’s dad walks over and drops his hand on Tweek’s head, not mussing his hair or anything, but just keeping it there for a minute. “I’ve got an email with the coroner’s report attached, if you want to read it later.”  
“Nah,” Tweek says, and Craig can feel the shoulder that’s pressed up against his own relax and sink down. “I believe you.”  
“Can I k-keep this?” Jimmy’s holding up the romance novel he snatched from one of the boxes. It sports what’s possibly the world’s worst photoshopped cover; a statue with a lyre that’s been pasted straight into some blue mist. The title is Dark Melody, which probably explains the lyre. “I c-could build a whole act around just reading this s-stuff out loud!”  
Mrs Tweak laughs so hard she chokes on her coffee; and her husband bounds over to thump her between the shoulder blades. “Be, be my guest, Jimmy,” she pants, once she can breathe again, fanning her face with her hand. “Keep as many as you like!”  
Craig catches that satisfied little smirk on Jimmy’s face – mission accomplished, he made Mrs Tweak laugh – even if it’s only there for a second or two. Now Jimmy’s thanking her and lurching to his feet – “Awesome! In that case, I’ll k-k-keep the whole series!” – and Token is burying his head in his hands.  
“You are _not_ reading that stuff to me on the drive back,” Token groans, while Jimmy’s on the floor, cheerfully undoing all of Tweek and Craig’s hard work and stacking books all over the rug. His only reply is a happy cackle. 

Once the Goodwill truck has been and gone, and Mom’s put the key through the mail slot, it’s time to leave. She’s got one tote bag of bills and documents, and another one full of meds, plus that gas mask thing in the plastic bag. Tweek’s carrying the big bag of trash – pizza cartons, paper cups and all that stuff – and Jimmy’s got a flimsy blue plastic bag of romance novels dangling from one wrist. Clyde and Token have wrangled the antique sideboard down the stairs, while Craig went ahead with the keys to the Prius to collapse the back seat and hold the door open for them.  
“Helen, Clyde! Come over here when you’re done,” Dad says, holding up his phone. “We’re using DocuSign, so you two just need to sign this with your finger!”  
“And then,” Clyde pants, leaning against the side of the Prius, “Then that Honda’s really mine?” He sounds like he still can’t quite believe it. He gave up on protesting a while ago; now he just seems excited. “Tweek, this isn’t the same car, is it? As the one she tried to kidnap you in,” he clarifies, when Tweek just blinks at him.  
“What? Oh no,” Tweek assures Clyde, shaking his head firmly. “That car was black!”  
“Then you’ll ride back with me, right?” Clyde comes over to slip one arm around Tweek’s shoulders, and the other around Craig’s, “Both of you?” He sounds so hopeful that it’s impossible to even think about saying no. Besides, the Prius can only legally fit two people now, with the back seat down, and Mom would probably prefer to just drive back with Dad, anyway.  
“Sure,” Tweek says, and Craig nods.  
“Awesome! Hey Craig, lend me a dollar? I think I left my wallet at the Tweaks’ house!”  
“You can _have_ a dollar,” Craig mutters, pulling his own wallet out of his back pocket, “Jesus Christ, I’m not _that_ broke.” He’s doing his best to act like this is the biggest pain in the ass, but Tweek can totally tell how happy he is, for Clyde to finally have his own car.  
“I’ll pay you back,” Clyde promises, before he snatches the dollar bill from Craig’s fingers and runs over to Mom and Dad.  
Tweek grins up at Craig, “If you don’t take it back, you’ll get to say you bought Clyde a car!”  
Craig lets out a loud bark of laughter, before he wraps his long arms around Tweek, pressing his chest into Tweek’s back. “You’re a genius, babe.”  
Tweek leans into him and giggles, picturing Clyde chasing Craig around school waving a dollar bill in the air. It’s kind of hard to keep a straight face when Clyde returns and proudly slides in behind the wheel. “There’s even a tape deck,” he says, grinning from ear to ear.  
“Lucky you,” Craig drawls, climbing into the back seat, which is adorable. Tweek would totally understand if Craig called shotgun, with his long legs and all. But it seems Craig would rather cuddle him the whole way back to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Tweek smiles, and looks up at the sky.  
That’s when he sees the ducks flying overhead. Three of them this time – a green-headed mallard, a brown female, and a smaller redhead duck, flying together in a V-formation with the mallard in the lead. They’re circling the parking lot now, almost like… Almost like they’re looking for someone.  
Tweek rips the Honda’s other back door open, and dives himself inside. He lands on his stomach, right across the back seats, with his head poking a very puzzled Craig in the ribs. “Honey,” Craig says, very carefully, “Are you okay?”  
“I’m fine. Start the car, Clyde,” Tweek growls, sitting up properly and yanking the seatbelt down. “Please, just start the car.”


End file.
